


The Strongest Among You

by clotpolesonly



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Sex, BAMF Merlin, Barebacking, M/M, Magical Enslavement, Merlin never made it to Camelot, Slavery, non-sexual choking, remix eligible, slave dynamics, slave merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4618560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Cenred's favorite slave is fierce and beautiful and a little bit broken. And yet when his master threatens everything Arthur holds dear, will Merlin be strong enough to save either of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strongest Among You

**Author's Note:**

> I was thrilled to get a prompt with so much potential and so many different ways it could go! I had a blast writing this fic and I'm very pleased with the end result.
> 
> Big thanks go out to [onceandfutureking](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onceandfutureking) for being my sounding board and cheerleader, and to [SloanGreyMercyDeath](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath/) for that last proofread and spit-polish!
> 
> Even bigger thanks go out to my wonderful artist ArgentSleeper! A link to the masterpost of her art will be added here later, so stay tuned for that and be ready to leave lots of effusively appreciative comments!!

 

Arthur gritted his teeth as the Escetian party rode into the courtyard, the king ensconced in a carriage painted in black and red and accented in gleaming silver, with another less ostentatious carriage following behind and a contingent of knights and guards bringing up the rear. The tension in his jaw might have made his smile look a bit forced, but it  _was_  forced so he guessed he couldn’t be faulted too much for that. Still, he stood straight and tall and tried to look as gracious as he possibly could when welcoming a scumbag like Cenred into his kingdom.

He’d only had the dubious pleasure of meeting Cenred in person a handful of times before. Cenred wasn’t actually royalty by blood, Arthur was fond of remembering, but of a noble house of rather mediocre standing. He’d been a knight when Arthur had made his first visit to Escetia at age thirteen and even then Arthur had thought Cenred undeserving of his title. He was narcissistic and crass, devious and almost cruel at times, without any of the honor and forthrightness that were inherent in the Knights’ Code.

Meeting Cenred again after he’d helped his father to seize control of Escetia when the previous king had met a rather suspicious end had cemented his disliking for the man. The newly-minted  _Prince_  Cenred had tried to lord his status over Arthur as if he had any right to look down at him, and Arthur had had to restrain himself from challenging him to a duel right then and there. The one encounter they’d had since Cenred had taken the Escetian crown for himself had been short, terse, and an exercise in restraint on Arthur’s part.

Arthur was not looking forward to enduring days’ worth of peace talks with an upstart nobleman who had no respect for the crown he had usurped and even less respect for the people who were supposed to be under his protection. His father hailed Cenred, raising a hand in greeting as the other king stepped out of his carriage, but Arthur was having enough trouble as it was maintaining even a mildly tolerant expression. Even that expression became too much when he saw the man who stumbled out of the carriage in Cenred’s wake and remembered his least favorite thing about Cenred’s reign.

When Arthur had heard tell that Cenred had legalized the slave trade within Escetia’s borders, two of his knights had had to drag him away from the training field after he’d demolished every training dummy they had. It was either that or ride out immediately to strike Cenred down, thereby ruining relations between their kingdoms and probably starting a war they wouldn’t win. That anyone could be so arrogant as to claim ownership of another human being made Arthur’s blood boil in his veins, but the fact remained that Escetia was a large kingdom with fertile soil, plentiful resources, and a well-trained army.

Camelot’s harvests the last few years had not been as bountiful as they’d hoped, and the knights’ numbers had yet to recover from the griffin attack that had taken so many lives a few seasons ago. Camelot was not at its strongest, and Arthur was forced to acknowledge that a treaty with Cenred was their best chance at maintaining a stable rule until their luck took an upswing. They were still on shaky terms with Mercia after the poisoned chalice debacle, and Uther often speculated that King Olaf might suspect Vivian’s sudden infatuation with Arthur of being magical in nature and think to retaliate. If it should come to war with either of those kingdoms, then they would need Escetia’s numbers to supplement theirs. They could not afford for Arthur to murder Escetia’s king, no matter how despicable a person he was.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Uther had no love for Cenred either, in all honesty, and he was swallowing his pride in this as well. Arthur knew he found the prospect of slavery to be nearly as distasteful as Arthur did, but his father had had years to build up his tolerance for treating people as disposable resources whereas for Arthur each life was precious. So Arthur stood back and let Uther greet Cenred like an old friend, trying and failing to keep his eyes off of Cenred’s slave.

He didn’t look like he was entirely out of boyhood yet, though he was probably only a year or two younger than Arthur if he were honest in his approximation. He was almost worryingly thin, and spindly in that way that meant he’d grown a lot in a short space of time without having the proper nutrition to keep up with it. He wore plain trousers and a threadbare tunic, unbelted, but he had no shoes on his feet. Arthur couldn’t see his face, only a mop of black hair as he kept his head bowed in deference.

It wasn’t until the man turned his head to the side that Arthur caught sight of the collar around his neck. It was a heavy thing, made of thick leather and dyed the red of Cenred’s insignia, with a fastening in the back that had a lock attached to it so that he couldn’t remove it himself. The second carriage too held slaves, all of them with those same locked collars, spilling out into the courtyard to stand huddled together with their heads bowed and their shoulders hunched. Arthur clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails cut into his palms and drew blood, but his father was bringing Cenred over and he couldn’t allow himself to rage the way he truly wanted to.

“Arthur!” Cenred’s tone was jovial enough but Arthur couldn’t help but notice that he had omitted Arthur’s title, a slight that Cenred could only get away with because his status was technically higher than Arthur’s now. Arthur saw his father’s eyes narrow as well, but the smirk on Cenred’s face told him that Cenred knew as well as they did that there was nothing they could do about it. Not if they wanted this treaty to pull through.

“King Cenred,” Arthur said tightly. “Welcome.”

“Your hospitality is most appreciated,” Cenred assured him. “I’m looking forward to the negotiations.”

“We have hope that they will be profitable for all involved,” Arthur said diplomatically.

“Profitable indeed,” Cenred said, smiling broadly. The slave shuffled his feet, drawing Arthur’s eye over Cenred’s shoulder, but a sharp gesture from Cenred saw him stilled again quickly.

“Well,” Cenred said, gesturing expansively. “It has been a long journey and we are all weary.”

Arthur almost snorted. Escetia was little more than three days over the border, and Cenred had been carried in a coach. Arthur couldn’t think of a less taxing trip. But he waited patiently while Uther pandered to Cenred’s trumped up exhaustion and sent him on his way to their finest guest chambers with slave in tow. Arthur rolled his eyes in disgust as soon as they were out of sight, but his father’s hand clamped down on his shoulder and prevented him from leaving the castle steps.

“Stay away,” Uther said.

“Believe me, I don’t need to be told to stay away from Cenred,” Arthur said with something of a scoff. “If I never had to spend another minute in his presence I would be pleased. But seeing as—”

“Not him, Arthur,” his father clarified. “The slave. Keep your distance.”

Arthur looked up at his father, frowning. “Why?”

“Because I know you, Arthur,” he said. The hand on Arthur’s shoulder squeezed, more paternal than restraining now. “And I know how much his plight distresses you. But our position is not secure enough to risk offending Cenred.”

“I know that. I wasn’t planning on offending him.”

“You wish to help that boy,” Uther insisted. “I know you do, and I understand that. But you mustn’t. So you stay away from Cenred’s slave and remove the temptation. I’ll have my hands full keeping Morgana quiet on the matter and I don’t need to be worrying about you as well.”

Arthur sighed, wishing for once that his father didn’t know him quite so well, or at least that he was harder to read. “Yes, father.” Uther clapped him on the back and headed inside, leaving Arthur to stew in the injustice of it all.

–

The banquet that night was tense and uncomfortable. At least, it was for Arthur. Cenred seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, if only because he had the upper hand and had no compunction about making it known. Arthur and his father were left to grit their teeth and allow the insults to go unanswered. Arthur was less than surprised and more than a little bit jealous when Morgana excused herself halfway through the meal and left the hall with skirts billowing out behind her and heels clicking furiously against the floor. He’d half expected her to put a carving knife through Cenred’s hand before she went, but he wasn’t that lucky.

With no one left to share commiserating looks with, Arthur found himself watching the slave again, out of the corner of his eye so his father wouldn’t notice him looking. Serving Cenred’s food and keeping his cup full, the slave didn’t look too different from any of the servants that lined the hall but for the collar around his neck and the fact that he still wore no shoes. He kept his head down and responded to the clicking of Cenred’s fingers, like a trained dog. Arthur stabbed his venison harshly enough to make his fork scrape along the plate.

He managed to avoid having to make too much unpleasant conversation with Cenred—it was his father’s duty to keep his fellow king entertained, and Arthur was quite happy to leave him to it, no matter how many frustrated and almost-pleading looks his father might send him—and he didn’t drink himself into a stupor, even though he wanted to. He stuck it out until Cenred finally rose with a terribly impolite yawn and declared himself ready to retire. They exchanged the required pleasantries, and Arthur was on his feet by the time Cenred had turned to leave, already longing for sleep.

One of the courtiers called Arthur’s name as he neared the side door to the hall, and he turned to acknowledge them. As that meant that he was no longer facing in the direction he was moving, the collision shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was. Arthur stumbled just outside the door but maintained his footing, and he reached out reflexively to grab hold of the person he’d hit.

“Whoa there,” he said quickly. “Beg pardon.”

And then he was looking into wide eyes of a shade of blue he had never seen before, vivid and shocked. His right hand curled around a slim wrist, his left grasping a thin shoulder. Full lips opened and closed a few times, but no sound came from between them.

“No,” the slave finally managed, his voice a pleasing baritone. “No, my lord. I beg your pardon, sire, I—”

“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Arthur said. “I was at fault, not you. My apologies.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had admitted fault so readily, but the man’s wrist felt delicate in his strong grasp and his eyes were so very blue. The man mouthed at him for a moment, at a loss for words, and Arthur watched his throat work as he swallowed. Then, quite abruptly, the man looked down the corridor where Cenred had disappeared, something like fear on his face.

“I should go,” he said, “before my lord has need of me.” He pulled his wrist free of Arthur’s hold and bowed low before taking off at a run, his bare feet making little noise on the stones. Arthur watched him go with a heavy stone of concern in his stomach and his father’s warning loud in his ears.

–

He didn’t see the slave again until the next day when his father halted the negotiations in favor of taking a midmorning break; Cenred had had a different slave at his beck and call, a slim young girl with her light hair cut short. Arthur wasn’t sure why he was disappointed, but he couldn’t deny that every time his eyes strayed over Cenred’s shoulder he was looking for a difference face.

Arthur stretched out his neck—stiff and sore from clenching his jaw so as not to tell Cenred to piss off—and set off on a walk through the castle. He didn’t really have a destination. Mostly, he was avoiding the places he could usually be found in the hopes of not being cornered by Morgana and ranted at about the evils of slavery, as if he didn’t already know. The girl at Cenred’s back had responded to clicks of his fingers, just as the blue-eyed man from the day before had, and Arthur had nearly bitten through his tongue to keep himself from jumping to her defense.

Arthur ran fingers through his hair, cursing himself for getting stuck on the image of the man from the previous night, eyes wide with shock over a simple apology, and the feeling of his wrist in Arthur’s hand. It took nearly walking into a maid to shake his thoughts loose. He wandered down in the vague direction of the kitchens, thinking he might pilfer a snack to take his mind off all this nonsense, but angry voices caught his attention.

He followed the sound to a little-used offshoot of the main laundry room, one that didn’t really qualify as a room so much as a recessed chamber with support pillars in front of it. The open nature of the place—not conducive to private conversations or gossiping at all—meant that no one from Camelot’s staff was eager to use it and it got pawned off on guests’ servants. Arthur wasn’t surprised to see Cenred’s slave there, the tub before him full of sudsy water and with clothing draped over the sides ready to be washed.

The slave wasn’t going about his chores though. He was standing, sleeves rolled up and hands still wet, with his head down. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Cenred stood before him, his back to where Arthur was leaning around the corner in something that was very close to eavesdropping.

“When I tell you to be somewhere at a certain time, I expect you to be there at that time,” he was saying. “Have I not made that abundantly clear to you by now?”

“You have.”

“Then why were you not in my chambers when I returned?”

The slave gestured to the tub behind him. “You told me to do the washing.”

“It should’ve been done by now. It would’ve been if you weren’t entirely incompetent,” Cenred drawled.

“I was late starting,” the slave objected. “I couldn’t find the place.”

“Oh, so you’re not just useless but directionally challenged as well,” Cenred said. He stepped forward into the man’s space. “Kneel,” he told him.

For the first time, Arthur saw the slave raise his head in Cenred’s presence. The look the man gave his master was mutinous, and the expression fitted his face infinitely more than the blank subservience Arthur had gotten glimpses of the day before. For a moment, Arthur thought the slave was going to rebel entirely. But Cenred ground out his order again and the slave dropped to his knees before his king, though he didn’t lower his head again.

“Now,” Cenred said, deceptively pleasant-sounding. “This is twice you’ve failed to follow my orders properly. You know I don’t like being disobeyed.”

The slave only continued to glare.

“Kiss my boot and all will be forgiven,” Cenred offered, making it sound like the magnanimous gesture of a kind and merciful lord.

The slave looked disgusted. When Cenred repeated his offer, the man spat on the floor at his feet. Before Arthur had fully gotten his head around just how much guts this slave had to do such a thing, Cenred had brought the back of his hand across the man’s face nearly hard enough to send him sprawling.

Arthur had already taken two steps forward before he remembered his father’s cautions. He put a hand over his mouth, biting into his palm to keep from calling out, from putting a stop to this brutality, and stepped back again, tucking himself further out of sight. He couldn’t bring himself to leave though.

Cenred had gripped the slave by the hair and hauled him upright again, looming over him. “You will show me the respect I am owed,” he growled.

“I owe you nothing,” the slave shot back fiercely.

Cenred wrenched his head backward and wrapped his free hand around the man’s throat over the leather slave collar, the red stark between his fingers. “I could kill you,” he said. “I  _own_  you. I could kill you in an instant, you piece of filth.”

The slave looked Cenred in the eye and said, “Then  _do it_.”

There was a pause and Arthur held his breath, alarm clogging his throat and his hand itching for his sword. The stalemate ended when Cenred flexed his fingers around the man’s throat.

“Say it,” he ordered.

Arthur waited for the slave to give a scathing retort, or else to say whatever it was his lord wanted him to, but he kept his mouth firmly closed. Seconds passed without a response until Arthur saw the redness creeping into his face and the aborted hitching motion of his chest. The slave’s mouth opened. No sound came out, but no air was going in either. Cenred didn’t look to be exerting that much pressure but the man was obviously choking, was  _being_ choked. Arthur could only stare in horror as the slave struggled for breath and tried unsuccessfully to pull away.

“ _Say it_ ,” Cenred said again, and the slave’s hand came up to pull at Cenred’s wrist. His face was flushed dark, turning a color that healthy faces were not supposed to turn, and Arthur’s hand closed on the hilt of his sword. He couldn’t possibly just stand here and watch a man be killed, alliance and treaty be damned. He was steeling himself to disregard his father’s warnings entirely when Cenred finally released his hold.

The slave collapsed forward, gasping for breaths that caught in his abused throat, making him cough and heave. Cenred stood above him and watched. Arthur couldn’t see from where he was standing, but he could imagine only too well what sort of look might be on the sadistic bastard’s face. Cenred waited patiently until the slave had stopped coughing quite so harshly before he spoke again.

“Now, what do you say, boy?”

It was a long time before the slave answered, the expectant silence broken only by his panting. He pushed himself onto his knees again, his head hanging low now as if he were too exhausted to lift it again. Arthur thought the man might be trembling, but he was too far away to be sure. Finally the man forced out one word in a hoarse voice that was almost too quiet to be heard.

“ _Master._ ”

Cenred didn’t even deign to respond. He simply stared down at the slave until he’d looked his fill, and then he turned away and left without another word. Arthur caught the corner of a satisfied smirk on Cenred’s face before he ducked back around the corner into the corridor to wait for Cenred’s footsteps to die away, feeling sick to his stomach. When he was certain Cenred was gone, Arthur peered back into the chamber.

The slave was still kneeling. He coughed, shook his head. Then he slammed his hand into the ground with a curse. He looked as though he might do it again, might just keeping hitting the stones until his hand gave out, so Arthur stepped forward.

“I’m not quite sure,” he said, wishing he had louder footsteps as the slave’s head jerked up in alarm, “if that was incredibly brave or incredibly foolish. Either way, I’m impressed.”

The slave was frozen for a moment, too shocked to respond. Then he immediately averted his eyes, as if he had just remembered that he was supposed to, and stammered out, “Your highness. Do you have need of me?”

Arthur couldn’t help but grimace at the roughness of the man’s voice, how very painful it sounded for him to talk. “Are you…alright?” he asked, aware that it was a rather inadequate question in the face of what he’d just witnessed.

The slave pushed himself to his feet, swaying a bit as he did so. Arthur reached out to steady him, but the man stepped back out of his reach, shaking his head to clear it.  He nodded without speaking. Arthur let his outstretched hand fall.

“Are you certain?” Arthur asked, for the skin around the slave’s neck was agitated where it wasn’t hidden by that damnable collar and his cheek and jaw were red and swelling where Cenred had struck him. “We have a renowned physician here, Gaius. He could look you over, make sure you’re alright.”

“If you don’t have need of me, then I really shouldn’t be talking to you,” the slave said in a rush, almost before Arthur had finished his entreaty. He tried to turn away, to leave, but Arthur caught him by the wrist and he froze. Arthur released him immediately, cursing himself for making such an aggressive gesture.

“Just let me take you to Gaius,” he said. “I’d really like to see you treated.”

The slave hesitated, drawing his wrist in against his chest and cradling it as if it were injured, though Arthur hadn’t applied hardly any pressure at all; it seemed more of a nervous gesture than anything else, or a habit maybe. He bit his lip, eyes flicking around the room without ever searching above waist height.

“I have to finish the washing,” he said, as if he hadn’t been ready to leave it in favor of making his escape.

“I will make sure it’s taken care of,” Arthur offered.

“If I don’t do it—”

“I’ll make it’s taken care of  _discreetly_ ,” he amended. The slave hesitated, shifting his weight on his feet. He reached up to wipe at his nose with the back of his hand but winced when it made contact. “Please,” Arthur said, gesturing toward the corridor. He made no move to touch the man again, would not force him to see a physician if he truly didn’t want to. He didn’t have the right to make that decision for another. No one should.

After a very long moment, the man nodded.

Arthur blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He led the way into the corridor and the slave trailed behind him, his arms wrapped defensively around his middle and his head once again bowed. Arthur didn’t let the man stay several steps behind as he seemed to be accustomed to. Instead Arthur dropped back to walk beside him and earned a quick side-eyed glance for it, but he didn’t say anything yet, just gave the man a chance to get his bearings.

“What’s your name?” he asked, halfway to the physician’s chambers. The man glanced at him again, longer this time, but he looked away without answering. Arthur didn’t push.

They encountered Guinevere, as Arthur had hoped they would, and he asked if she had time to finish King Cenred’s laundry. Her first reaction was a muffled sort of indignation, but after hearing the reason for it she was only too happy to help. She tried to catch the slave’s eye but he wouldn’t raise his head, not even for a servant. With the way his hands were clenched into fists and his jaw was tight, Arthur had to wonder if maybe this time it was out of shame rather than deference for one of a higher station.

They were nearly to Gaius’s chambers when the slave finally spoke again.

“Merlin.”

“Pardon?”

“My name,” he said. “It’s Merlin.”

“Merlin,” Arthur repeated with a nod. “Bit of an odd name. But it suits you.”

“Does that mean you think I’m odd too?”

Arthur looked at him, surprised. There was something of a smile playing around the edges of his mouth, small but definitely there, even as he kept his eyes on his feet. Arthur had to laugh, inordinately pleased at having gotten something out of Merlin other than the fearful obedience he had gotten before and the vitriol he had witnessed with Cenred.

“Perhaps,” he said. “There’s something about you, Merlin.”

Merlin met his gaze this time, looking up at him through eyelashes that seemed to catch the sunlight as they passed each window and make his eyes shine. His lips quirked up a bit more, almost to the point of qualifying as a real smile. And when Arthur realized that, in his distraction, he had walked right past Gaius’s chambers and had to double back, it blossomed into an outright grin that made Arthur’s cheeks hurt from mirroring it.

–

Gaius fussed over Merlin with all the mother-hen-ness his professionalism would allow him, clucking his tongue and shaking his head and wrapping a blanket around the man’s shoulders. By the time he had finished his initial examination and retreated to his worktable to mix up his remedies, Merlin looked a bit like he’d been stampeded. Arthur caught his eye, tipped his head toward Gaius and gave an exaggerated eye roll that made Merlin chuckle.

Arthur hadn’t needed to stay and probably shouldn’t have. Well, according to his father, he  _definitely_  shouldn’t have. But Arthur couldn’t bear to leave Merlin alone when he was still hunched in on himself, looking small and uncertain. It was such a stark contrast to the fire and insolence he had shown when he was alone with Cenred, goading and challenging. Upon first glance Arthur would never have expected such a seemingly timid man to harbor such strength.

Arthur took a seat by Merlin’s side, near enough that he could speak quietly without Gaius overhearing. Merlin didn’t shift away from the proximity, his heat tangible along Arthur’s shoulder and thigh, but he didn’t look at Arthur either, preferring to watch Gaius in his concocting even as Arthur’s eyes traced over the bruises forming on his jaw and cheekbone.

“Is he always like that?” Arthur asked softly.

“How should I know?” Merlin said. “He’s your physician.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Not  _Gaius_ ,” he said. “I meant Cenred.”

Merlin glanced at him and then down, his hands twisting into the blanket around his shoulders. He chewed on his lip. He nodded.

“How long have you been with him?”

Merlin shrugged halfheartedly. “Months. A year, maybe.”

“And how did it happen? How did you end up there?”

“I didn’t want to stay in my village,” Merlin said. “Tiny little thing. Boring, really, if nothing else. I travelled a bit, wandered until I just…caught the king’s eye, I guess. Big mistake, that.”

“Caught his eye?” Something about the phrase made Arthur’s stomach turn sour. Maybe it was just the bright blue of Merlin’s eyes, or the cut of his jaw, the contrast of dark hair against pale skin. The plumpness of his lips, perhaps. He was nothing if not eye-catching and Arthur couldn’t help the way his eyes roved over Merlin’s body, as if searching for evidence of Cenred’s lust even through layers of cloth.

Merlin saw his concern and his glance and frowned for a moment before comprehension dawned. “No!” he said, eyes wide and, as far as Arthur could tell, sincere. “No, not like that.”

“He’s never—I mean, he hasn’t—?”

“No.” Merlin let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Well, not me, at least. He has other slaves for that.”

The relief Arthur felt was double-edged; Merlin may have been spared the violation, but that meant that there were others under Cenred’s control, others who were being hurt as badly as Merlin and worse, and there was even less that Arthur could do for those unfortunate souls. Here at least there was Gaius, coming over with a pot of salve for Merlin to put on his bruises and a tonic to help numb the pain in his throat. It wasn’t much, but the way that Merlin looked Gaius in the eye and thanked him with a small and genuine smile on his face was already a vast improvement.

It was something, if not enough.

Tonic drunk and salve pocketed, Merlin stood up. He took the blanket from around his shoulders, folded it carefully, and laid it on the bench. “I should go,” he said, somewhat reluctantly, gesturing to the door. Arthur accompanied him to it, but Merlin stopped after they’d shut it behind them. “I don’t know where I am,” he admitted with a sheepish grin that revealed dimples in both cheeks.

“I’ll escort you wherever you need to go,” Arthur said. It was hard to tell with the bruises just beginning to color along the right side of his face, but Arthur was fairly certain that Merlin blushed.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said quickly. “You have negotiations to attend, don’t you?”

Arthur shook his head. “I’ve got plenty of time.” He didn’t, really, and his father would reprimand him for being late, but the shy smile Merlin gave him meant that he really didn’t care.

–

Arthur didn’t get a true reprimand because that would require making a scene in front of the council and the royal guest, but he did get a sternly disapproving look. He was used to those, though, and it wasn’t able to puncture the strangely buoyant mood he was in. He weathered the frustrations and tediousness of the afternoon treaty negotiation session with much more aplomb than he had the morning session, though he still found himself searching for Merlin over Cenred’s shoulder instead of the mousy little man that was there in his place.

Once dismissed, his father looked as though he might ask what had brought about his unusually good mood, but Arthur couldn’t really tell him that he had done the exact opposite of what he’d been told to and so made vague excuses about fresh air and progress for the good of the kingdom, and then claimed long-neglected paperwork to make a quick escape. There was no such paperwork though, so Arthur wandered through the corridors again, and he didn’t bother trying to convince himself that he wasn’t hoping to run into Merlin again.

He was out of luck. Merlin, he figured, was likely either in Cenred’s chambers doing chores and taking whatever his master threw at him—and Arthur was torn between hoping that Merlin would stand up for himself and fearing the consequences if he did—or already in the guest servants’ quarters that had been set up for the slaves’ use. Arthur loitered in the hallways for as long as he could without making himself unduly conspicuous before returning to his rooms to dine alone and make a halfhearted attempt to focus on the notes of the morning’s meetings in preparation for the next session.

Merlin was at Cenred’s shoulder when Arthur arrived at the council chambers the next morning. He tried to meet Merlin’s eye but the man kept his head down obediently, stepping forward to fill Cenred’s cup at the click of his fingers as he had been trained to. Arthur spent much of the morning worrying his lip between his teeth and being distracted by the flush of purple and yellow bruising along Merlin’s cheek and jaw. He managed to draw himself back into the talks before he got reprimanded, but only for fear of his father’s response were he to notice the source of his distraction.

Arthur lingered at the table after the meeting was adjourned, gathering up his hastily scrawled notes, long enough to overhear Cenred’s orders to Merlin. He fully intended to seek him out, ask how he was doing, check if he was feeling alright, but this time he wasn’t quick enough to evade his father. He suffered through their lunch as genially as possible, trying not to appear as impatient as he really was, and his father thankfully didn’t comment on his distraction.

Arthur feared that Merlin would have finished his chore and moved on to another by the time he was dismissed from his father’s presence, but he found Merlin still seated in the armoury, a blunted ceremonial sword in his lap and freshly polished pieces of ceremonial armour strewn across the table behind him. Merlin didn’t quite look up when he entered, improper as it would be for a slave to look one of a higher status in the face, but he did turn toward the noise.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and the slave did look up then. “Hello.”

Merlin mouthed at him for a moment. “Er…hello. Your Highness.”

“Do you mind if I sit with you a moment?”

Merlin gave a jerky nod, obviously unaccustomed to being asked for permission to do something. He quickly turned back to the sword he was polishing as Arthur took a seat on the bench beside him.

“How are you doing?” Arthur asked. Merlin looked at him, brow furrowed as if he didn’t understand the question. Arthur gestured to his face. “Looks like it hurts. And I’d imagine your neck does too.”

Merlin’s cheeks colored slightly and he shrugged, full lips pressing into a tight line. “I’m fine,” he said. He didn’t offer up anything else, and the tense line of his shoulders told Arthur he didn’t like to be reminded of Cenred’s heavy-handedness and liked even less that Arthur had borne witness to his humiliation. Arthur didn’t speak for a few minutes, just watching Merlin’s large hands run competently over the dull blade.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” he said eventually.

“You may do whatever you wish, sire. It is your right.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Perhaps, but do you  _mind_?”

Merlin huffed and shot him an irritated look. Something in Arthur’s face took the wind out of his sails and he let out another breath that was more of a sigh this time. “Ask what you will.”

“Why did you ride in Cenred’s carriage? The rest of the slaves had their own, but you were up front with the king when he arrived.”

After a long silence, Arthur thought Merlin wasn’t going to answer at all. Then he said dully, “I guess you could say that I’m something of a favorite.”

“A favorite?”

Merlin nodded.

“Why? I mean, if not for–” Arthur made a vague sort of gesture, unwilling to be crude about the implication.

Merlin chewed his tongue for a moment. “I’m the only one still willing to give him an excuse,” he said eventually. “There’s no reason to discipline a slave if he doesn’t disobey in the first place.”

“You’re the only one who still fights,” Arthur said, a hollow feeling ringing in his stomach. He let out a bitter laugh. “Cenred is a despicable man. Truly.”

“I certainly won’t argue with you there,” Merlin said flatly.

“I’m going to knock him on his arse tomorrow on the training field,” Arthur said decisively. “I’d run him through if I could, but I’d rather not start a war that we can’t win. So I’ll just put him on his back. Repeatedly. Give him some nice bruises to match. Worse than yours, I’ll make sure of it. I’ll get him in the face a time or two. Go for the nose, try to break it. Will probably be severely lectured if I do, but I think I could play it right, make it look like an accident. Father probably wouldn’t mind too much; he thinks Cenred’s a terrible person as well. It might even get a chuckle out of him later, looking back, and won’t that be a sight. Maybe I could—”

Merlin had stopped polishing in favor of trying to stifle his laughter, head bowed for once not in subservience or shame, but to hide his mirth. He looked up at Arthur, the smile on his face big enough to make his eyes crinkle up and almost disappear. Arthur smiled back, laughing along with him. He hadn’t realized how close they were to each other, but he could count Merlin’s eyelashes if he wanted to. Before he’d even realized he was moving, long before he might have stopped to think through his actions, he had leaned in and pressed his lips to Merlin’s.

There was a moment, just a moment, where Merlin’s lips moved softly against his, blissfully sweet and tender. And then a hand collided with Arthur’s chest and he was shoved unceremoniously off the bench entirely, landing on the stone floor in a painful sprawl. By the time he had righted himself, Merlin was halfway across the room, sword and polishing rag abandoned, and he looked furious.

“How  _dare_  you,” Merlin said, glaring fit to burn stone to ash.

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, but he kept his distance, wary of what exactly he’d done wrong and not wanting to make it worse. “Merlin—”

“What, just because Cenred hasn’t had me yet, that means I’m free for the taking?” Merlin asked. Arthur’s eyes widened as he realized what assumptions Merlin had made, but Merlin kept talking. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m not that kind of slave,  _sire_. I’m not going to bend over for you just because you wish it.”

“No, Merlin!” Arthur said, wondering when exactly he had had his back pressed up against the armoury door and when exactly Merlin had gotten so in his face. Merlin, he realized, was actually a bit taller than him, fury and indignation lending him a remarkably intimidating presence so that he seemed to loom over Arthur. Arthur fought the urge to raise his hands in surrender. “No, that’s not what I— I mean, I wasn’t intending to—”

“What,  _Arthur_?” Merlin asked, sneering Arthur’s name with a familiarity that was both a mockery of him and a blatant show of disrespect that Arthur couldn’t be bothered with considering the insult Arthur had shown him first. “You weren’t looking to fuck me? Really? What, then?”

“Dimples!”

That was not what Arthur had intended to say, but it had certainly come out of his mouth anyway. Merlin looked surprised and then bewildered, stepping backward out of Arthur’s personal space to stare at him.

“What?” he asked.

Arthur felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment and he mouthed at Merlin, trying to backtrack along his own thoughts to where that particularly declaration had come from.

“You have dimples,” he said weakly. “But…but only when you smile a certain way. And your eyes crinkle up when you laugh, and they’re just  _really_  blue. And,” he added, because Merlin was looking wary and uncertain now as the fight drained out of him, “you make me laugh too. You make jokes, even with everything you’ve been through. All of this and you can still smile at me like that, with the dimples and the crinkly eyes, and I just—”

Arthur stopped himself with a huff of something that might have a self-deprecating laugh. “There’s just something about you, Merlin. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Merlin had his arms wrapped around his middle, closing off now that the ferocity of his anger, so visceral and strangely vulnerable, had died down. Arthur couldn’t read his face. After a long and very tense moment, Merlin simply turned and picked up the sword and rag he had dropped, taking his seat again and turning back to his polishing, focusing on that and only that. Arthur watched, ignored and at a loss.

Eventually Arthur moved to sit next to him again, making sure to leave a more conservative space between them this time. “I’m sorry,” he said tentatively into the silence, and Merlin’s hands stopped moving. “For any offense I may have caused you. It wasn’t my intention.”

Merlin gave a slight nod and his polishing picked up again, even though the blade was as shiny as it was likely to get. Arthur let him work, not wanting to impose on him but not wanting to leave his side either.

“Why?” Merlin hadn’t raised his eyes from the sword and the word was barely audible over the swishing over the polishing cloth. Arthur made a questioning noise. “Why me? Why would you want to…?”

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. “Well, you’re beautiful, for one.” Merlin snorted and Arthur frowned at him. “I mean that.”

Merlin looked up, blue eyes trained on Arthur’s with an intensity that took almost his breath away.

“I admire your courage,” Arthur admitted. “I’m a knight and we value bravery very highly. And you holding your own against Cenred, refusing to give ground even when you know what the consequences of your actions will be?” Arthur shook his head, marveling. “I don’t know that I would have the strength to do you what do, not for as long as you have.”

Merlin shrugged. “It’s not nearly as noble as you’re making it sound.”

“It’s amazing.” Arthur took the sword from Merlin’s slack grip and laid it on the table behind them. “Merlin,” he said, making sure that Merlin was looking at him this time. “I would very much like to kiss you. If you’d allow it. Only a kiss. I ask no more of you than that.”

Merlin bit his lip, his gaze darting away again as if holding eye contact for too long made him uncomfortable. Arthur resisted the urge to take him by the hand, not wanting to put any more pressure on the man. The bruises along Merlin’s right cheek were stark and colorful against his pale skin, evidence of the suffering he’d endured and his unbroken spirit in the face of it. Merlin shifted, agitated.

“You have every right to refuse me, Merlin, if that is what you wish,” Arthur said, keeping his tone gentle even though every bit of him railed against the idea of Merlin’s rejection. “You are under no obligation, and you will face no repercussions should you choose to turn me away.”

Arthur made a conscious effort to keep his breathing steady, to not give in to the temptation to hold his breath as he awaited Merlin’s answer.

Never before had he wanted someone so desperately, someone he’d just met and couldn’t honestly say that he knew. But Arthur wanted to pull Merlin’s lip from between his teeth and soothe it with his thumb. He wanted to bury his fingers in Merlin’s hair. He wanted to feel Merlin’s hands, broad and long-fingered, on his skin. And more than anything else he wanted to make Merlin smile again, wanted to see his eyes light up and watch joy transform his face into something truly lovely and warm and open.

He was so caught up in his admiration that he almost missed it when Merlin whispered, “Alright.”

“Yes? Really?” Arthur asked, not daring to believe that he’d heard properly. Merlin rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth turned up just a bit.

“Yes, alright,” he repeated, more firmly. And there was that smile, spreading almost reluctantly in response to the one Arthur had on his own face, pressing dimples into Merlin’s cheeks and bringing sunshine into the windowless room.

Arthur reached out slowly, wary that Merlin might spook and make a run for it. But Merlin held steady as Arthur cupped his face in his hands and ghosted his thumbs over his cheekbones.

“Are you going to kiss me or are you just going to stare?”

Arthur startled, and then he blushed. “Sorry,” he said. “Got a bit distracted.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “By my face?”

“Is it creepy if I say yes, or is it just sad?” Arthur asked with a sheepish smile.

Merlin pursed his lips but, if Arthur wasn’t very much mistaken, it was to fight back a smile as well. “Just get on with it, if you’re going to,” he said.

Arthur huffed. “Impatient.”

This time when he fitted his lips to Merlin’s, Merlin didn’t push him off. It was a soft kiss, lingering but chaste, no more than Arthur had asked for. When they parted, Arthur stayed close, waiting for a sign that Merlin did or did not want him to continue. Apparently he deliberated too long. With another roll of his eyes, Merlin surged forward to capture Arthur’s lips in a proper kiss this time.

Arthur had kissed plenty of people in his time. He was a beloved prince, a respected warrior, and an attractive young man; he had never been in want of willing partners. Yes, he had shared any number of kisses, with women and men both, over the course of his life, but nothing compared to this.

Arthur was a prince and a man, someone of undeniable stature and standing. Women melted against him and men yielded willingly. But Merlin pushed. Every move Arthur made, Merlin countered and surpassed. Arthur’s gentle fingers on Merlin’s jaw were met with Merlin’s fingers in his hair, tangled there and anchoring him right where Merlin wanted him to be. The swipe of Arthur’s tongue over Merlin’s lips was following by Merlin’s teeth nipping at him, drawing his lower lip into Merlin’s mouth.

The kiss was a battle the likes of which Arthur had never encountered, and he had never been more exhilarated in his life. Why had he ever expected anything different from Merlin— _Merlin_ , a man he had seen dare a king to kill him just because he knew he wouldn’t go through with it? Merlin fought with everything he had and refused to be subjugated, even in this. And for once in Arthur’s life, he was more than willing to be conquered.

They broke apart with a gasp as the distant sounds of heavy footsteps and loud voices reached them. For a moment they could do nothing to pant into the hot space between them, eyes locked even though they were too close to see each other properly. A particularly raucous shout of laughter had Merlin pulling back abruptly. He had gathered up the sword and armour he had been charged with before Arthur had managed to shake himself out of his daze.

“Wait,” Arthur said. Merlin stopped just before the door, looking back over his shoulder. He was flushed and his lips were red and kiss-swollen, and Arthur had to swallow down the urge to stare just that little bit more.

“I’m on laundry duty,” Merlin said, apropos of nothing. “Tomorrow,” he added at Arthur’s blank look. “I’ll be doing laundry. In case you were…curious, or something.” This time when he ducked his head, it was to hide a blush and a tiny, pleased smile.

Arthur held the door open for him and he disappeared down the hall just in time for a group of knights to trudge in from the opposite direction, tracking in mud from the training field and too full of high spirits to notice the besotted grin on Arthur’s face.

–

Merlin was up to his elbows in washing water when Arthur found him at lunchtime the next day. He didn’t notice Arthur at first, focused as he was on scrubbing at the garments he had submerged. Arthur leaned against one of the pillars partially blocking the chamber from the corridor, watching the play of muscle in Merlin’s forearms where he’d rolled up his sleeves and the way the light from the braziers flickered over his face. Merlin caught sight of him when he wrung out a tunic and stood to pin it on the drying line.

“Arthur,” he said, and Arthur was inordinately pleased that he had greeted him by name instead of by title. “You came.”

“Did you expect me not to?” Arthur asked.

Merlin’s cheeks colored and turned back to his task, pinning up the tunic deftly. He looked between Arthur and the washing bin, where a number of items still soaked.

“I’m not…I still have some work to do,” he said apologetically.

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

He pulled up one of the other chairs so he could sit alongside Merlin. As Merlin returned to his task, Arthur took the opportunity to regale him with tales of his knightly conquests, some of the more colorful antics of the royal court, and various mishaps from the knights’ training—and he refused to entertain the idea that he might be looking to impress the man. Merlin laughed occasionally, a soft throaty chuckle that only encouraged Arthur to search for ever more outlandish stories so he could hear it again. He was midway through relating the time that Sir Caradoc had managed to piss off the farmer whose land they were camping on enough to be chased off with threats of castration when Merlin interrupted him.

“Don’t you have meetings to return to?” he asked, sounding somewhere between confused and reluctant.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. “Not today. My father decided we all needed a day to clear our heads so we didn’t end up stabbing each other in the council room out of sheer frustration.”

“What were you doing this morning then?”

Arthur smirked. “I told you I’d put Cenred on his back, didn’t I?”

Merlin stiffened, the soft smile he’d worn for the last hour disappearing. “You actually did that?” he asked.

“Well, not exactly,” Arthur admitted with a shrug. “My father told me I needed to let Cenred win, for the sake of the treaty, so I did. But I didn’t put much of an effort into making it look convincing, which actually makes it even more insulting, if you think about it,” he added with a laugh.

Merlin threw another shirt into the tub with enough force to splash water over Arthur’s knee. His expression had gone tight and strangely blank, though his hands were steady as he continued working. Arthur sat up straight again and put a hand on Merlin’s arm.

“Merlin?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Merlin said immediately.

“Something’s wrong,” Arthur countered. Admittedly, he’d only known Merlin for a few days but he could read him better than he could Morgana, and he didn’t doubt his conclusion. “You’re obviously thinking about something…unpleasant. What is it?”

Merlin shrugged off Arthur’s hand, but he didn’t seem angry or defensive like he had the day before. He wrung out a pair of breeches and hung them up to dry. He turned back to the tub to find that there was nothing left there for him to wash, nothing else to occupy his hands. They clenched at his sides, opening and closing randomly. He tugged at the clothes on the line instead, smoothing out wrinkles so they didn’t dry unevenly.

“Merlin?”

“Cenred is proud,” he said finally.

“Exceedingly so, yes.”

Arthur stood up and crossed to Merlin, taking one of Merlin’s hands in his and pulling him away from his fussing. Merlin allowed Arthur to maneuver him around until his back was against the wall, let Arthur crowd him against the stone. He wrapped arms around Arthur’s waist as Arthur leaned against him, holding him close and grasping handfuls of his tunic, but he kept his head lowered, eyes on Arthur’s chest.

Merlin didn’t say anything for a long time, so Arthur leaned forward to press his cheek against Merlin’s. He nuzzled the soft skin behind Merlin’s ear and Merlin tilted his head to allow him better access. Arthur left a trail of soft kisses along Merlin’s jaw, tracing his way up to Merlin’s mouth to kiss him properly. Merlin kissed him back, languid and slow and easy. But when Arthur moved to pull away, Merlin chased after his lips, dragged him back in and fisted a hand in his hair instead.

The kiss turned fierce after that, with Merlin holding Arthur as close to him as possible and arching up against his body. Merlin moaned into his mouth, dug fingers into his back and then lower down, gripping at Arthur’s arse like it was his right. Merlin’s wantonness was quite possibly the single most arousing thing Arthur had ever experienced, but there was an edge to it that Arthur wasn’t sure he liked. It felt desperate.

It took Arthur a while to extract himself from Merlin’s tight hold, several repetitions of Merlin’s name and a restraining hand on his chest to keep him from surging forward again. When it became clear that Arthur wouldn’t be kissing him again until he told Arthur what was wrong, Merlin slumped back against the wall, breathing heavily. Arthur gave him a moment to get his breath back, and he watched the careful blankness creep back onto his face. Arthur said his name one more time.

“Cenred is proud,” Merlin said again, looking over Arthur’s right shoulder. “He’s proud, and he doesn’t react well when his pride takes a hit.”

“Oh.” Arthur’s heart sank into his stomach.

“Sometimes if we stay out of his way for a while, he’ll calm down,” Merlin said, as evenly as if they were discussing the weather and not his likelihood of being beaten. “But other times, he’ll only get more aggravated the longer no one’s around for him to take it out on. There’s really no way of telling which way it’ll go.”

“So staying away is an all-or-nothing gamble?” Arthur said.

“Essentially.”

And suddenly Merlin was pushing Arthur away again, moving him back with a hand to the chest and sliding out from the warm space they’d created between them. Arthur stumbled, taken aback by the abrupt rejection. He reached for Merlin’s hand, but Merlin pulled away, shaking his head.

“This is a bad idea,” he said, though he sounded like he was talking to himself. “A really bad idea. I should not be doing this.”

“Merlin—”

“There are  _so many_ reasons not to do this,” he said, to Arthur this time. “If nothing else, Cenred will be furious if he finds out.”

“So will my father, honestly,” Arthur said, catching Merlin’s hand and holding onto it. He tried to keep his voice light, tried not to let their worries drag them down in the moment. “He warned me,  _ordered_  me, to stay away from Cenred’s slaves. He knows that I have something of a hero complex—” He laughed. “—and he didn’t want me jeopardizing the treaty by trying to save you all, but I—”

Merlin snatched his hand away, his expression darkening into something bitter and sharp that killed the laughter in Arthur’s throat at once. “Is that what this is, Arthur?” he demanded. “You want to  _save_  me? You want to swoop in and rescue the damsel in distress?”

“No, I—” he tried, but Merlin didn’t let him speak.

“You can’t  _save me_ , Arthur,” Merlin spat, getting in Arthur’s face and shoving him back a step. “I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need your damn help.”

“I know you don’t,” Arthur protested, indignant. “I never said you did.”

“Then why are you still here?” Merlin cried, throwing hands in the air. “Why the hell are you still doing this?”

“Damn it, Merlin, don’t you feel it?” Arthur shouted back. He tried to take Merlin’s hands but Merlin slapped him aside. Frustrated, he grabbed Merlin instead and pulled him into his arms, tightening his hold when Merlin tried to push him off. “You’re not some conquest or a prize to be won,” Arthur insisted. “You’re not a quest or a mission to me. This is more than that, Merlin. Tell me you don’t feel it too.”

“Feel what?” Merlin asked, his voice choked even though Arthur wasn’t holding him quite that tight.

“This  _connection_  between us,” Arthur said fervently, ignoring Merlin’s hands shoving at his sides, the way Merlin seemed torn between getting him off and pulling him closer. “I have never felt so drawn to another person, Merlin, but I feel like I’ve known you forever. And maybe it sounds sentimental and ridiculous,” he said with a half-hysterical laugh, “but I feel like I’ve suddenly found my other half when I’d never even realized I wasn’t whole.”

Merlin’s struggles faded and stopped. He was breathing hard, his breath hot against the side of Arthur’s neck. There was a muscle ticking in his jaw from the way he clenched his teeth and he looked anywhere but at Arthur no matter how much Arthur tried to catch his eye, to see if what he’d said had any effect on him at all.

“Please, Merlin,” Arthur said, knowing that he sounded insane and desperate for Merlin to believe him anyway. “I’ve been in love before, I have, but this—it’s is so much more than that. You feel it too, don’t you? Like we’re written in the stars. We’re meant to be, Merlin, I know we are. Fate or destiny. Call it whatever you want, but it’s real. This is  _real_.”

Merlin sagged against him, his forehead hitting Arthur’s shoulder in something like defeat. Arthur cradled Merlin to him, pressing his nose to Merlin’s hair.

“Tell me you don’t feel the same way,” he whispered, his throat clogged by what felt like the beginnings of tears. “Just tell me that and I’ll leave you alone and you’ll never have to see me again.”

Merlin shook his head, arms coming up to wrap around Arthur’s waist once more, clutching at him.

“Tell me, Merlin,” Arthur said, fear that he would making his voice harsh.

“I can’t,” Merlin said, his voice muffled against Arthur’s neck.

Arthur almost sobbed as relief deeper than anything he’d ever experienced washed over him. He knew it made little sense, but having Merlin in his arms felt so incredibly right, even more right than having a sword in his hand or a crown on his brow. Merlin fit there, fit perfectly against him, and Arthur never wanted to let him go. He wanted Merlin’s smiles and his laughs, he wanted Merlin to shout at him and he wanted to shout back, and he wanted Merlin to be in his arms at the end of every day.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Merlin said, his voice small and broken-sounding. “I—I can’t—”

Arthur lifted a hand to stroke Merlin’s hair. “Shh, Merlin,” he said. “We’ll find a way. I don’t care about what my father will say, or Cenred. I promise you, we’ll find a way.”

Merlin shook his head, clutching at him. “Don’t make promises,” he said. “Don’t make promises when there’s no way for you to keep them.”

“I will keep them,” Arthur insisted. He pushed Merlin back enough to look him in the face, his heart breaking to see the tear tracks on Merlin’s cheeks. “I know you don’t need me to save you,” he said. “But I will if that’s wh—”

Merlin stopped him with a kiss, wet and messy and a little bit frantic. “Stop,” he said against Arthur’s lips. “Just stop. Just—” He shook his head again. “Don’t promise me tomorrow,” he said, eyes closed and forehead pressed against Arthur’s and sounding so defeated that Arthur almost wanted him to start shoving him again. “All I care about is now, alright? All I want is right now.”

Arthur cupped Merlin’s face in his hands, wiped the tears from his cheeks with gentle fingers. “Then come to bed with me.”

Merlin took a shaky breath and nodded.

—

They were lucky not to encounter anyone on the way to Arthur’s chambers. Arthur wasn’t sure how he would have explained the way he was holding onto Merlin’s hand so tightly he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to let go. But the corridors he led them through were empty, the castle residents mostly out enjoying the afternoon sunshine, and no one bore witness to their passage. Arthur bolted his chamber door behind them, just to be safe.

As soon as he had, he found himself pressed back against the door, Merlin’s lips hot and insistent against his own. Arthur kissed back eagerly, drowning in the headiness of it. Now that Merlin had seemingly made the decision to be with him in the here and now, he was nothing but passion, a whirlwind of wild abandon barely tamed and focused solely on Arthur.

Merlin’s took what he wanted from Arthur without hesitation. His tongue wrestled Arthur’s own into submission, explored Arthur’s mouth with the temerity of a conqueror in his newly won lands. His hands traced Arthur’s body, pulled at his hair and skated over his chest, gripped his thighs and dug into his hips, moving Arthur where he wanted him to be. Arthur yielded, let himself be moulded, opened himself to Merlin’s invasion.

Merlin tugged Arthur’s tunic off over his head and tossed it aside, promptly attacking the smooth skin of newly bared shoulders. His lips sent frissons of pleasure down Arthur’s spine, making him shiver and moan. Arthur pulled at Merlin’s tunic as well but Merlin knocked his hands aside, focusing on his task of turning Arthur into a puddle of want. Arthur contented himself with fisting one hand in Merlin’s hair instead, holding on as Merlin’s tongue did something positively sinful with Arthur’s earlobe.

Merlin’s hands, long fingered and graceful but rough with the evidence of hard work, traced patterns into Arthur’s chest. They found his nipples, tweaking them, pinching, pulling. Arthur arched into the touch, panting at the ceiling as Merlin sucked bruises into his neck.

Arthur’s head hit the door hard when Merlin’s talented hands migrated to his crotch. The first brush against his arousal punched a gasp out of his throat and he bucked. Merlin caught him by the hips and held him still, insinuating a thigh between Arthur’s legs and pulling their erections flush against each other. He kissed Arthur again, though Arthur’s lips were slack and clumsy with the distraction of Merlin’s body pressed so intimately to his.

Arthur barely noticed that Merlin was tugging at the laces of his trousers until the last of his clothing was being pushed down over his hips to pool around the tops of his boots. Arthur toed the boots off with some difficulty, but he managed to kick them aside and the trousers with them soon enough. Merlin wasted no time in wrapping a hand around his straining cock. Arthur buried his face in Merlin’s neck to keep from crying out, fingers clutching at Merlin’s shoulders to stay upright.

He made another attempt at ridding Merlin of the damnable fabric that prevented Arthur from marking Merlin as Merlin had marked him. Finally Merlin pushed Arthur back with an impatient huff and shrugged out of the offending garment, tossing it away. Then he was on Arthur again, almost overwhelming in his onslaught of touches.

Arthur’s thighs hit the side of his mattress and he wondered vaguely when he stopped being supported by the door and when Merlin had managed to steer them to the bed. A shove to the chest sent him sprawling back and he was treated to a truly delectable sight: Merlin flushed and debauched, his eyes fever-bright and pupils blown, lips swollen and kiss-bruised, lightly muscled chest heaving.

Merlin nodded to the bed and Arthur obediently moved to situate himself properly, crawling backwards without ever taking his eyes off his lover. He watched eagerly as Merlin rid himself of his loose trousers. Merlin’s cock sprang free, as dark as the rest of Merlin was pale, and Arthur’s blood thrilled at the sight.

Even as Merlin moved forward to kneel on the bed at Arthur’s side, he reached up to tug fruitlessly at the collar around his neck. It stayed firmly locked in place, the dark leather harsh against the otherwise unbroken paleness of Merlin’s body. Arthur had a moment—a completely irrational, terribly possessive moment—where he relished the sight of the collar, red being as much his own color as it was Cenred’s, marking Merlin as _his_. Merlin ceased his struggle with something akin to a growl and instead lunged forward to kiss Arthur hard enough to bruise his lips.

Merlin stretched out to cover Arthur’s body with his own, their skin heated and sweat-slicked. Arthur couldn’t stop himself from bucking upward, his cock skittering across the firmness of Merlin’s stomach in a way that made his breath catch—rather an impressive feat when he felt positively breathless from Merlin’s kisses, like Merlin was stealing the very air from his lungs with every intimate swipe of his tongue.

Arthur was drowning in Merlin, surrounded and subsumed by him, anchored by his weight and the pressure of his fingertips. He grasped at Merlin’s arms, feeling wiry muscle shift against his palms, and held on with bruising strength. Merlin shifted against him, grinding his hips down, and Arthur drew away from his mouth with a gasp of pleasure. Merlin immediately switched his attentions to the bared span of Arthur’s shoulder once more, laving it with his tongue and sucking marks into the skin.

Arthur gave a growl of his own, trying to press their arousals together properly and lacking the proper leverage in his position. With a burst of speed, he rolled them over so that he had Merlin on his back instead. From his new vantage point it was much easier for him to roll his hips just right, his cock and Merlin’s side by side, smooth skin gliding along smooth skin.

For a moment, Merlin simply threw his head back, noises of pleasure seeming to stick in his throat and emerge strangled but nevertheless lighting a fire low in Arthur’s stomach. Then, quite suddenly and with more strength than Arthur would have thought the thinner man possessed, Merlin threw Arthur off and pinned him down once more. Merlin gripped him by the shoulders and pushed him harder into the mattress, putting his entire weight behind the gesture.

Arthur looked up at him, shocked by the vehemence of it, but there was something wild in Merlin’s eyes as he held Arthur down, something dark and desperate. Seeing it, Arthur felt that, maybe, he understood. Merlin wanted to be in control. With that damned collar still around his slim neck, signifying his complete and utter subjugation in every other aspect of his life, in this Merlin needed to be the one in control, the one with the power.

When Merlin pushed at Arthur’s legs, Arthur didn’t resist. He let them fall open, let Merlin settle himself between them and relished the way they felt like two pieces of a puzzle coming together at long last. He let Merlin’s fingers touch him, explore him, coax moans from his throat until he thought he might go hoarse from it. And when he found the bottle of oil tucked away beneath his pillows, the one he sometimes used when he pleasured himself, he didn’t hesitate to press the bottle into Merlin’s hand.

Merlin prepared him quickly but thoroughly, long fingers probing into the core of Arthur’s body, twisting and seeking. Arthur hissed at the unusual stretch; it had been a very long time since anyone had had Arthur like this. Once he’d graduated from squire to knight, he’d thought it beneath his dignity. Or, at least, the men he’d lain with had thought that, and Arthur had been too proud to ask for it. Now Arthur’s pride was the furthest thing from his mind. He writhed under Merlin’s touch with unabashed desire, near to begging with his need to have him.

“Merlin,” he panted, his fists twisted into the sheets by his head until his knuckles went white. “Gods, Merlin, please. I want you now. Just—”

Merlin cut him off with another kiss, deep and open-mouthed. Then he was pushing at Arthur, rolling him over. Arthur allowed himself to be manhandled onto his stomach, burying his face in a pillow to muffle the sounds of his desperation as Merlin touched him again. He heard the slick sound of Merlin preparing himself and had to restrain the urge to simply rut against the sheets until he found his release.

The initial sting of being breached didn’t last long. Merlin sank into Arthur’s body with a slow but relentless pressure, not stopping until he was fully sheathed. Arthur trembled at the feeling of being so completely filled, at the tickle of Merlin’s harsh breaths against the back of his neck, at the barest brush of Merlin’s lips along his spine. The moment between union and motion felt suspended, encased in amber, like the calm before the storm.

The first snap of Merlin’s hips drove the air from Arthur’s lungs. The second wrung a cry from his lips. Each thrust seemed to drive Merlin deeper into the heart of him, even if his rhythm was broken and unsteady. Merlin’s breath was loud in Arthur’s ear, as strained and uneven as Arthur’s own. Arthur reached back, grasping for Merlin, trying to pull him in closer, deeper. Merlin took Arthur’s hand and pushed it back up the bed, holding it there as he found his pace and picked up speed.

Arthur didn’t bother trying to rein in his noises, not when every nerve in his body was singing with pleasure. He gasped and shouted freely, trusting to the thickness of his walls to insulate them from passersby, even daring to call out Merlin’s name. Merlin gave a particularly punishing thrust when he did, the sound of Merlin’s balls smacking against Arthur’s thighs loud and obscene, but the edge of almost-pain only brought Arthur’s release that much closer.

Merlin pressed his forehead between Arthur’s shoulder blades as his rhythm began to falter. For all Arthur’s wantonness, Merlin remained largely quiet. His pleasure came not in words but in gasps and grunts, low groans against the damp skin of Arthur’s back. His left hand was tight enough on Arthur’s hip to leave marks, but his right remained firmly on top of Arthur’s where he’d pinned it at the start.

When his breath hitched, he threaded his fingers through Arthur’s, holding tight as he buried himself as deeply inside Arthur as he could and spent. The throbbing of Merlin’s cock inside him, and the almost inaudible sound of his name on Merlin’s lips, left Arthur reeling as his climax overtook him, an ecstasy that felt more like a melding of souls.

It was a long time before either of them moved, the silence broken only by their laboured breathing. Arthur pressed his overheated cheek to the cool pillow, waited for his heart to stop beating out of his chest, and took the time to relish the weight of Merlin collapsed on top of him. Finally Merlin lifted himself up and moved away, Arthur ignoring the twinge as he disengaged and left him painfully open.

Merlin rolled to lay beside him, his thin chest rising and falling steadily. Arthur reached out and placed his hand over Merlin’s ribs, feeling the expansion with every breath. Wanting to feel it closer, Arthur tugged at Merlin, reeling him in and wrapping an arm around his waist. Merlin didn’t resist, letting himself be pulled across Arthur’s chest and compliantly tucking his head up under Arthur’s chin. Arthur leaned his cheek against Merlin’s hair and let out a sigh of pure contentment.

Cenred wouldn’t want to let Merlin go, he knew that. If Cenred was anything at all, he was jealous and possessive. He would love nothing more than to deny Arthur the one thing he wanted most, and he would take enormous pleasure in having every legal right to do so. According to the laws of Escetia, Merlin was an object and he belonged to King Cenred. He was Cenred’s property, to be kept, bartered, and sold per his will. There was precious little Arthur could do to change that.

His father wouldn’t help, he knew that too. His father had told him explicitly to stay away, had warned him off from the very start. Not that Arthur thought his father had expected something like this. He hadn’t expected it himself, would never have expected it. But perhaps, if he could convince his father of just how right it was, then he could be persuaded. His father had truly loved his mother, and he would have done anything for her, crossed any ocean and scaled any height. Arthur would do the same for Merlin. He loved him, more than he had any reason to. He loved Merlin.

Arthur didn’t realize he’d said that last bit out loud until he felt the man in question go tense all over. It wasn’t as if Arthur hadn’t said as much before, in the laundry when they’d argued, but maybe he’d said everything except those words exactly. Arthur ran a soothing hand over Merlin’s back, hoping he would settle, but Merlin threw off his arm and sat up. He ran his hands over his face, scrubbed them through his hair. Then he stood up and began dressing, following the trail of clothing back to the door.

Arthur sat up, alarmed by the fact that Merlin had yet to look at him. “Merlin?” he said, more tentatively than he would have liked.

Merlin didn’t answer. He pulled on his trousers and his tunic in silence, then stood in the middle of Arthur’s bedroom looking as if he desperately wished he had more articles of clothing to occupy him. He pulled at his collar again, just a quick, harsh yank that did no more good than any of his previous attempts.

Arthur watched with a sinking feeling in his stomach as his lover prepared to leave him. He tried to tell himself that Merlin was just worried, knowing that now he had to return to Cenred, knowing that Cenred was possibly still enraged by the insult he had been given—by the insult _Arthur_ had given him—and that he was likely to be hurt because of it. But it was painfully clear to Arthur that it wasn’t that. He knew already that Merlin wasn’t just leaving him, not in the literal sense.

“Merlin,” he tried again. He had to swallow hard to make sure his voice came out steady. “Merlin, come back to bed for a few minutes. You don’t have to go just yet.”

“Yes, I do.” The words were cool, almost detached. Merlin still wouldn’t look at him. He didn’t bow his head, though. Small consolation.

“Why?” Arthur asked, needing to know.

Merlin shook his head. “This was a mistake.”

Arthur felt it like a physical blow. “No,” he said. “No, you don’t mean that.” He would have gotten up, crossed to Merlin, pulled him into his arms like before, but something in the way Merlin stood kept him where he was; it wouldn’t do him any good. But he had to try, he couldn’t just let it end like this, not when it had just started. “Merlin, you said you felt it too.”

“This was a mistake,” Merlin repeated firmly. “I can’t do this. Not with you.”

Merlin was out the door before Arthur could think of a single thing to say that might change his mind.

—

Arthur didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

No, he hadn’t done  _anything_  wrong. Everything had been going fine. Merlin had said he felt the same. The sex had been mind-blowingly fantastic. Everything was  _fine_  until Merlin walked out. Merlin had  _left him_ , after he’d opened his heart and bared his soul, and he’d done it with no apparent reason at all. A mistake, he’d said. Arthur scoffed. The only mistake was Arthur’s and that had been letting himself fall for Merlin in the first place.

Arthur hardly paid the morning’s negotiation session the slightest bit of attention, only scraping through by dint of repeating the last few words of whatever anyone else said directly to him and then saying he agreed with his father on the matter. He got a few funny looks, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he’d been so thoroughly used and rejected.

No one  _rejected_  Arthur Pendragon. He wasn’t truly an arrogant man, really, he wasn’t. But he  _was_  a prince. The Crown Prince of Camelot. And he was a champion swordsman, the best in all the Five Kingdoms, and a dab hand at a slew of other weapons as well. He was the best strategist in Camelot, the strongest warrior, a very skilled statesman when he put his mind to it, and an all-around intelligent and successful person. Not to mention, he had on good authority, very attractive. He was everything anyone could ever want, and Merlin had had no reason at all to walk away. It was nothing short of an insult.

Arthur thought it through over and over again as he ripped into a dummy on the training field, and some more as he put a few sparring partners on their backs. He tried to put the whole sordid affair out of his mind while he did some paperwork in his chambers after dinner, but he only managed to handle his quill too vigorously and put a hole through the parchment to leave ink stains on his desk.

The summons from the king that came not too long after Arthur finally gave up on the paperwork was a relief. He didn’t know what his father could possibly want him in the throne room for at this hour in the evening, but the page didn’t have any specifics and Arthur needed something to focus on that wasn’t Merlin.

That plan was made rather difficult when the man in question came skidding down the corridor halfway to the throne room and made a grab at his arm.

“Arthur!” he said. “Wait, I need to talk to you.”

Arthur shook off his hold and kept on walking. “You’ve done your talking. You’ve said all you need to say.”

Merlin sped up to keep pace with him, turned at an angle so that he could look directly at Arthur instead of where he was going. Arthur hoped he kept his footing because if he tripped Arthur probably wouldn’t be inclined to catch him at the moment.

“Wait, Arthur, please. There are things I need to tell you. Or try, at least. I don’t know how much I can actually s—”

“I’ve got places to be, Merlin, if you don’t mind overmuch,” Arthur snapped.

Merlin tried to take Arthur’s arm again, tried to drag him to a stop. “Don’t go to the throne room,” he said.

Arthur jerked his arm away and walked faster, wanting nothing more than to get out of Merlin’s presence before he said or did something he would regret. Whether that was tell Merlin to piss off and say any of the number of cruel and unfair things he was biting back or get down on his knees and beg Merlin to stay with him he wasn’t sure.

“ _Wait, please!_ ”

They were within sight of the door when Merlin ran in front of Arthur, facing him with hands raised, forcing Arthur to stop or run him over. Arthur threw up his hands in aggravation, half-considering just knocking Merlin to the side, but then he saw Merlin’s face. There was a bruise on his left cheek that hadn’t been there the night before which made Arthur’s throat close up a bit. His eyes were wide and shining, and his face was pale and his features drawn and tight. He looked just short of frantic.

“Alright, what?” Arthur asked with ill grace.

“I didn’t want to leave you last night,” Merlin said in a rush. “I didn’t, but there are things you don’t know.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Gods, Merlin, I don’t have time for this.” He went to push Merlin aside but Merlin put a hand on his chest.

“I love you,” he said.

Arthur faltered, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath.

“I love you, Arthur, and that’s why I need to try,” Merlin said. “I need to tell you; I need to find a way.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur asked, looking at him again and taking in the worry lines that seemed to have appeared on his youthful face overnight. “Tell me what? And why can’t you just come out and say it?”

“Arthur.” Merlin took a deep fortifying breath, nodding to himself. “Arthur, Cenred is—”

He stopped abruptly, his mouth still open but no sound coming out. His lips moved for a moment, forming words that never became audible. Then took a sudden gasping breath, like he’d been underwater. He cursed and shook his head. Arthur stared at him, bewildered.

He stared more as Merlin reached up and took hold of his collar, working the tight leather around his neck until the lock was in the front. He pulled at it, growling in frustration, and cursed again. Then he wrapped his fingers firmly around the lock.

“Merlin, what are you—”

“I just need to—” There was sweat beading at Merlin’s temple, though he didn’t seem to be exerting himself in any way that Arthur could see. He looked a bit mad actually. He tried to speak again. “Cenred is—”

His voice stopped again. This time Merlin didn’t give up, didn’t stop and take a breath like he had before. It took Arthur a moment to realize that Merlin wasn’t breathing at all. His chest was moving, trying to expand and getting stuck halfway through.

“Merlin?”

Arthur had seen this before, this exactly. Only there had been a hand around Merlin’s throat then, choking him. Now there was nothing that should have been stopping Merlin from breathing properly, nothing at all. But Merlin’s face was turning red and he was swaying on his feet, even as he closed his eyes tight and kept trying to form words and force them out.

Merlin let go of the lock, his hands flying to the collar itself instead. He tried to get purchase on the smooth leather, tried to force fingers between the collar and his neck, but it was too tight. He scratched instead, fingernails digging into his skin, blood staining the collar a deeper red and making it too slippery to grasp. Arthur was certain the collar hadn’t been that tight around Merlin’s neck the night before.

It was sorcery. It had to be. The collar was what was choking Merlin, and it had been the last time too. Cenred hadn’t been squeezing at all; he’d simply been making a point with the gesture. And now, when Merlin was trying to tell Arthur something—trying to  _warn him_ —the magic in the collar was making absolutely certain that he couldn’t do it. It was killing him.

Merlin pitched forward, his legs giving out. Arthur caught him before he hit the floor, trying to prop him back up on his feet.

“Merlin, stop,” he said, trying to sound authoritative. It came out more panicked than he would have liked. “Damn it, Merlin, just  _stop_.  _Please_!”

Merlin jerked in his arms and then he was breathing again, gasping and coughing into Arthur’s shoulder as the collar released him. Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin’s waist to keep him upright, supporting him as he shook.

“I can’t do it,” Merlin said, his voice hoarse and thready. “I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough.”

“Sh, Merlin, it’s alright,” Arthur said, running his hand down Merlin’s back, trying to soothe him even as his own mind ran wild.

Merlin pushed back to look him in the eye. “ _Don’t go in the throne room_ ,” he said once more, and this time Arthur nodded. There was no reason for his father to have summoned him there this late in the evening without providing a reason. And he had evidence now that Cenred was utilizing magic and had cursed his slaves to keep his secrets at the cost of their lives. That was all the warning he needed.

A shout echoed down the corridor, muffled by the distance and the heavy doors but still recognizable. Whether or not the summons had come from him, his father was definitely in the throne room. Arthur’s heart almost stopped; he couldn’t tell if his father’s cry was from anger or from pain. He had almost reached the doors when Merlin yanked him back again.

“Arthur, _no_.”

“My father’s in there,” Arthur said.

“So is Cenred,” Merlin shot back.

“Yes, and he’s got my father,” Arthur pointed out. “That’s not something I can turn my back on, no matter the risk to myself. Where are the damn guards?” he muttered, looking up and down the corridor and seeing none of them usually stationed wherever the king was.

“You can’t go in there,” Merlin insisted.

“I have to, Merlin.”

“Then kill me first.”

Arthur turned back to him, more horrified than he could say. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I can’t explain, Arthur,” Merlin said, tears in his eyes as his fingers latched onto the lock on his collar. “If I could then it wouldn’t need to be done at all. Please, Arthur, if you love me then do it. It’s the only way to keep you safe. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Arthur shook his head, bewildered and more than a little bit disturbed because Merlin seemed to actually _mean_ what he was saying. But Arthur couldn’t understand the words, couldn’t parse them into something that made any semblance of sense. He glanced back at the doors, worried that he hadn’t heard any more from his father. Merlin’s fingers dug into his forearm.

“ _Kill me_ , Arthur,” Merlin begged. Arthur opened his mouth to deny him but the sound of the great doors creaking open cut him off.

“Oh no, my dear Merlin,” came the drawling voice of Cenred. “You don’t get off that easily.”

Arthur turned to see Cenred, dressed in his finest and most regal apparel and with his ostentatious crown on his head, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He heard Merlin hiss his name one more time, clearly desperate, but Arthur simply couldn’t do what Merlin wanted him to, especially without any reason. He doubted he would be able to do it _with_ compelling reason.

Cenred fixed cruel eyes on Merlin, an immensely satisfied expression on his face, and said, “Onbýg éow bebéodende selfwill. Fulge mec.”

Merlin cried out in pain. He collapsed, nearly knocking Arthur off his feet as his legs gave out beneath him. He clawed once more at the collar, which was now giving off a faint red light, glowing unnaturally in the dimness of the corridor. Arthur tried to kneel down beside him, to reach for him, but Merlin was thrashing too hard for him to get close.

Abruptly, Merlin fell still. Arthur held his breath, wondering for a frantic second if whatever Cenred had just done had succeeded in killing Merlin where Arthur had failed. But Merlin was still breathing. And when Cenred ordered him to get up, he did.

Only he didn’t look right. His movements were odd, jerky and disjointed, as though all his limbs weren’t in communication with each other. He stumbled halfway to his feet and crashed back down. When he finally made it upright, he wavered, unsteady. His face showed terror, but there was no tension in his body, no other indication of his fear. It made the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand on end.

Cenred strolled forward leisurely and nodded. “There. Was that so hard?” he asked Merlin, painfully patronizing. When Merlin didn’t respond, he tutted in faux disappointment. “Come now. Surely you were taught better manners than that, unwashed peasant though you are.”

His taunting was interrupted by another shout from the room behind them followed by a loud crash. Arthur made a break for the open doors, slipping in behind Cenred to see his father slumped against a wall, head lolling and clearly unconscious.

He heard Cenred say, “Merlin, stop him,” and then he was yanked to a halt. It felt as though someone had tied a rope around his waist and pulled hard, knocking the wind out of him as it stopped his forward momentum, but there was nothing physical there. He turned to see Merlin’s hand raised and his eyes glowing the molten gold of a sorcerer.

He watched the magic fade, feeling sick to his stomach. He barely had time to register the look of anguish upon Merlin’s face before Cenred had brushed past him, already speaking to the other occupant of the room that Arthur had overlooked entirely.

“What have you done, you fool?”

It was one of Cenred’s other slaves, the mousy man he’d had serve him in meetings a time or two. The man stuttered terribly under his master’s furious gaze.

“M—my Lord, he became belligerent,” he said.

“Of course he did. I tasked you with keeping him under control.”

“Well, I—I could not, I mean, he is a—a formidable, er, warrior, Master, and I could not subdue h—”

Cenred reached a hand out before him and closed his fist on air. The slave’s excuses stopped immediately. Arthur watched as he too struggled to breathe, scrambling helplessly at the collar restricting his airway.

“Uther deserved to _see_ the end of the Pendragon line,” Cenred said to the choking man. “He deserved to see Camelot fall. Now due to your incompetence, only the little princeling will stand witness to his kingdom’s destruction.”

This time, Cenred didn’t release his hold at the last second. There was silence in the throne room as the slave fell to his knees and then pitched forward, his writhing subsiding into twitches until, finally, he was still.  Cenred turned to face Arthur, shrugging his shoulders with a callous smile on his face.

“It’s so hard to find good help these days,” he said. “Oh well. I guess one Pendragon is better than none. And besides, Uther’s not dead yet. I’ll just make sure he’s got a sight to see when he wakes. Then, once he knows that his precious son is dead and his kingdom overtaken, I will be more than happy to put him out of his misery.”

“You’re a sorcerer,” Arthur said, eyes still on the slave, the _dead_ slave whom Cenred had killed without laying a finger on him. He had always known Cenred to be a lot of heinous things, but sorcery had been the one crime Arthur had not thought to ascribe to him before now.

Cenred laughed. “Not quite.”

Arthur didn’t have his sword on him, hadn’t thought he would need it for a late-night meeting with his father, but neither did Cenred. He was more than a match for the man in hand-to-hand combat; he would just need to take him down before he could use his magic to turn the tide of the fight. Arthur flung himself forward with a battle cry, nearly landing a blow, but Cenred side-stepped and backed out of range.

“Merlin! Restrain our dear prince here.”

Arthur made it halfway through another charge before he was jerked to a stop so hard he almost fell over backward. His arms were pulled down against his sides and pinned there by what felt like chains, but there was nothing touching him at all. Arthur looked back to see Merlin with his hand raised and his eyes bright again. Arthur struggled against the magical binding, but it didn’t budge.

“Merlin,” he said. “What’re you doing?”

“Arthur—”

“Arthur needs to show me the respect due a king,” Cenred said, holding his arms out wide. “Make him kneel before me, Merlin.”

It was a moment before Merlin complied, but there suddenly came a great weight upon Arthur’s shoulders, far too heavy to be borne. Arthur collapsed, biting back a cry of pain as his knees hit the stone floor hard. He thrashed in his bonds, only stopping when he realized that if he knocked himself over, Cenred would have a damn good laugh about it.

“Merlin,” he said again. “Merlin, why are you doing this?”

Merlin came into his line of sight with small, irregular steps that were nothing like his usual smooth gait. “I’m not!” he said. “I’m not doing it. It’s not me.”

Arthur shook his head, uncomprehending. “Release me!”

“ _I can’t_.”

Cenred chuckled, circling around until he could lay a hand on the back of Merlin’s neck. Merlin looked like he wanted to jerk away from the touch, but all he did was lean his head as far as he could to the side. Cenred gave him a shake.

“These collars are a wondrous thing,” he said, smiling. “I, myself, am no sorcerer, Arthur. But with these, I don’t need to be. With this right here—” Cenred wrapped his hand around Merlin’s throat from behind and Arthur renewed his struggles. “—I need only give the order, and all of Merlin’s power is at my command.

“They’re not new devices,” Cenred admitted. “Antiques, really. Relics from a time when truly powerful magicians walked freely. The spells on these collars are the caliber that few these days could achieve. But you don’t need to have magic of your own to use them. That’s the true beauty of it.”

Cenred’s grin widened and he gave Merlin another shake before releasing him.

“Just a little ritual,” he said. “So simple any hedgewitch could do it. One little blood ritual and anyone wearing these collars is bound to me. One measly little phrase, and they obey my every word, whether they want to or not. So of course I needed to find people to wear them.

“Magical refugees are surprisingly easy to spot if you know where to look and what to look for. I’ve rounded up quite a sum in the past few years. Most of them are in the process of subduing your guards and keeping your knights busy,” he told Arthur pleasantly. “Leaves me free to overthrow you without interruption.”

“Why?” Arthur asked, panting from strain of fighting something he couldn’t even see.

Cenred laughed, throwing his head back. “Why would I want to overthrow you?” he asked. “Why wouldn’t I? Camelot may not be in its heyday at the moment, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth a little something. You know us royals,” he said, winking. “Who among us doesn’t want to expand our holdings?”

“You are not royalty,” Arthur sneered. “You have no right to that crown.”

Cenred’s expression darkened for a second, but he mastered himself quickly and tutted instead. “And that right there is the other reason. You Pendragons and your holier-than-thou attitudes. Looking down your nose at everyone and everything you deem unworthy.” Cenred strode forward to loom over Arthur, looking viciously triumphant. “How long I’ve wanted to see you laid low. I’ve been planning this for a long time.”

He turned back to gesture at Merlin. “For these collars to fall into my lap when they did was just luck, or maybe it was providence. The divine right of kings.” He adjusted his crown pointedly. “To eradicate the Pendragon line with an army of sorcerers at my back was just too good an opportunity to pass up. Insult to injury, if you will. And Merlin here is the jewel of my collection.”

He said it with a strange combination of condescension and pride. He put his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, grinning at him.

“You’d never know just by looking, but Merlin is by far the most powerful warlock I’ve ever encountered. You wouldn’t believe how much trouble I had bringing him down, getting him collared. I lost a dozen men in that fight at least, but it was worth the effort.”

Cenred trailed a finger along the red leather, stroking it in a way that was almost loving. “All that magic,” he said wonderingly. “Mine.”

Merlin spat in his face. “ _Fuck you_.”

There was a moment of stillness and Arthur held his breath. Cenred wiped his face clean with his sleeve. He nodded. Then he backhanded Merlin and send him sprawling to the ground.

“ _No!_ ” Arthur shouted.

He fought against his bonds with a single-minded determination, red clouding his vision until Merlin on the ground with blood dripping from his mouth was the only thing he could see. He might have made it to his feet if the unnatural weight weren’t still bearing down upon him, keeping him humbled. He couldn’t reach Merlin himself, but that wasn’t as important as keeping Cenred away from him.

“I swear to god, Cenred,” Arthur growled. “You raise your hand to him again and I will _cut it off_.”

Cenred stopped advancing toward Merlin, turning instead to look at Arthur inquisitively. He took in Arthur’s renewed struggles, the way his face was surely flushed red with anger more than exertion, how he couldn’t bear to keep his eyes off Merlin no matter how much he tried. He glanced at Merlin, then back at Arthur, eyes narrowed. Arthur was too slow in realizing his mistake to school his features into something less damning.

Cenred laughed, long and loud.

“Oh, this is just too good,” he cried, hands on his stomach. “I could not have seen this coming.”

He nudged the toe of his boot ungently into Merlin’s side, ignoring the threats and pleas Arthur threw at him. He leaned down and hauled Merlin up onto his knees. He kept a tight hold on Merlin’s hair with one hand and gripped his chin with the other, making sure that Arthur could see the marks upon his cheek.

“I’d seen the looks you gave him,” Cenred confessed. “I thought maybe you’d bedded him—I certainly couldn’t blame you for wanting to—but this is so much better than that. You’ve got _feelings_ for him,” he said, gleeful. “You’re _in love_ with him.”

Arthur’s face burned with humiliation, but he kept his head high and held Cenred’s gaze without wavering. He didn’t look at Merlin, couldn’t bear to see the mingled fear and hatred there, or the desperation and despair he’d shown outside the throne room. Arthur didn’t deny the assertion, and Cenred laughed again.

“Surely you see what’s so amusing about it,” he said. “The irony is _overwhelming_. Uther Pendragon’s son, the great and wonderful Prince Arthur of Camelot, in love with not just a lowly slave but a _sorcerer_. Although, of course, you didn’t know that. You couldn’t have, considering his powers and his secrets belong to me.

“Do you love him still?” Cenred asked, halfway between mocking and curious.

Arthur bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood and refused to reply, thinking of the glow in Merlin’s eyes and the invisible chains holding him prisoner, but also of vivid blue and of smiles that pushed dimples into his cheeks and of the sheer nerve it took to spit at the man holding his life in his hands. And he knew his answer. He couldn’t look at Merlin now, though, no matter how badly he wanted to; looking away would be letting Cenred win.

Cenred shook Merlin hard and Arthur jerked almost involuntarily in his bonds.

“I wonder if your love will persevere when you see exactly how much destruction your sweet little Merlin here is capable of,” Cenred said.

It was impossible for Arthur to miss the look of terror on Merlin’s face now. Cenred ordered him to his feet and Merlin was forced to obey even as he protested verbally, the concentration on his face showing exactly how hard he was fighting against the commands he was given. His resistance did him no good.

“Give your lover a good show,” Cenred said, squeezing Merlin’s shoulders from behind.

Merlin’s right arm rose slowly in fits and stops, caught between Merlin’s will and Cenred’s control. When it was halfway to shoulder-level, Merlin managed to wrest control of his left arm. His left hand caught hold of his right forearm and held on tight, pulling, trying to drag it back down to his side.

Cenred’s face darkened. He took Merlin by the throat and growled, “ _Fulge mec_!”

The collar gave a pulse of red light and Merlin cried out in pain once more. His left hand released and his right arm extended fully before him. His eyes glowed gold.

An unnatural wind began to blow within the throne room, twisting like a whirlwind around the three of them. It buffeted the tapestries along the walls and whipped the flames in the braziers into a dancing frenzy. It tugged at Merlin’s clothes and made his hair fall into his face. It was nearly strong enough to blow Arthur off his knees entirely, but Arthur crouched lower to steady himself.

“Come on, you can do better than that!” Cenred shouted over the roar of the gale.

Merlin’s eyes glowed again. He held both arms at chest level, hands turned in toward each other. Between his palms there came a light, blue-white and unsteady. It got brighter and brighter, growing in size until it was as wide as Merlin’s chest. The light crackled and sparked with an energy that made Arthur’s hair stand on end, different than anything he’d ever felt before, and it made the air all around them taste of metal.

Cenred said something that Arthur couldn’t hear over all the noise. He did hear Merlin cry out, but he couldn’t tell if it was from pain or from anguish. Then Merlin was throwing his hands out and the ball of light, so bright it hurt to look at, was flying forward in a deadly arc. The lightning shot above Arthur’s head, so close that he ducked instinctively, and crashed into the wall behind him. The air was suddenly filled with dust and debris, picked up and spun around by the ongoing wind, and Arthur coughed into his knees, blinking against sting of it.

Rough fingers in his hair yanked Arthur upright until he was staring into Cenred’s manic grin.

“Do you see now, Arthur?” he asked. “Do you see how _weak_ you’ve made yourselves?”

He tightened his hold and Arthur hissed through his teeth.

“You look down on magic like you always looked down on me,” Cenred said. “And now I will be the one to end you, with magic as my weapon.”

The wind died down abruptly, airborne chunks of stone clattering to the floor all around them. Cenred released Arthur and looked back. Merlin’s eyes were blue again, though they still flickered sporadically with gold. He was shaking his head.

“No,” he said. “No, I won’t do it.”

“You will do as I tell you to,” Cenred snarled, running out of patience for Merlin’s little rebellions now that he was so close to his goal. “You _will_ _kill_ Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin’s entire body twitched, but he remained standing.

“ _I won’t_.”

Cenred let out a growl and Arthur thought maybe he’d strike Merlin again. Instead, he said once more, “ _Fulge mec_!”

Red light seeped from the collar again. Merlin didn’t cry out this time, though his face contorted in pain. He fell to his knees, but he was still shaking his head, refusing to give in.

Cenred strode forward and said it again. Merlin gave a strangled cry and curled in on himself, hunching over. When he lifted his head, the golden sparks in his eyes were more pronounced, different than the flood that came with performing a spell. Arthur wondered if that was Merlin’s magic working to fight off Cenred’s hold, trying to give its host back his agency.

Cenred took Merlin by the hair, fury etched in every line of his face, but Merlin spoke before he could intone his spell.

“Please,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “ _Master_. Don’t make me hurt him, I beg you. Anyone else. Anything else you want, I’ll do it willingly. I’ll never defy you again. Just _please_ , Master.”

 Cenred looked taken aback for a moment, as surprised by Merlin’s submission as Arthur was. Unlike Arthur, who felt as though his heart may break in two to see such a strong man as Merlin laid so low, he smiled. He ran a finger down Merlin’s face. Merlin shuddered but didn’t pull away from the touch this time.

“How pretty you are when you beg,” Cenred murmured. He traced the curve of Merlin’s lower lip and Arthur half-expected Merlin to bite him, but Merlin just closed his eyes. “Perhaps with Pendragon out of the way,” Cenred said with a leer that made Arthur’s stomach turn over, “I’ll take my turn with you.”

Cenred wrapped his fingers around Merlin’s throat and said, “ _Onbýg éow bebéodende selfwill. Fulge mec_!” He roared it loud it enough that it echoed in the large empty chamber, putting as much force behind the spell as he could manage.

Merlin screamed. He arched backward, taut as a bowstring, and then slumped to the ground at Cenred’s feet like a puppet with its strings cut. Cenred dragged him roughly onto his feet and turned him in Arthur’s direction.

“Now _destroy_ _him_ ,” he said. He stood back expectantly.

Merlin was still for a long moment and Arthur thought that maybe he would overcome it, that his magic would be stronger than the collar’s ancient enchantments, but then he lurched forward. Step by agonizingly slow step, Merlin’s feet brought him closer to his target even as the rest of him fought against the compulsion.

When finally Merlin stood in front of him, Arthur looked up into Merlin’s eyes. They were bloodshot and glossy with tears, his cheeks stained with the same, but they were as vividly blue as they had been the first time Arthur had looked into them and lost his breath. There were rings of gold around his pupils, throwing off sparks that coincided with hitches in his movements, tiny moments of control.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed as his right hand began its spasmodic ascent. “Arthur, I’m sorry. I can’t stop it. I’m not strong enough.”

“But you are,” Arthur said, his voice thick with tears of his own. “You _are_ , Merlin. Look at what you’ve done already. Do you think anyone else could have managed all that?”

Merlin’s hand jumped up another inch and he whimpered, a tiny helpless noise.

“It’s not enough,” he said.

“It can’t end like this, Merlin,” Arthur insisted, shaking his head with all the determination he possessed. “It can’t. You and me—we’re destined for more than this. We’re written in the stars, remember? We’re meant to be. You know that, Merlin. You said you felt it too.”

“I _do_ ,” Merlin said, practically a sob. His arm was halfway to its destination, still stubbornly pushing its way past Merlin’s resistance. “I love you. God, I love you, Arthur.”

“I love you too, Merlin,” Arthur said, forcing it past the lump in his throat. “With all my heart. And I _believe_ in you.” Arthur managed a smile even as he tasted salt on his lips. “You told me that you didn’t need me to save you. And I knew you were right because you’re the strong one out of us, Merlin. You’re so strong and brave, and you always stand your ground. If there’s anyone who could ever pull this off, it’s _you_.”

Merlin closed his eyes, fighting so hard that the tendons in his neck stood out in sharp relief, the collar biting into his flesh. Still his hand drew level with Arthur’s forehead. Cenred shouted something, but Arthur didn’t make out the words over the rushing of blood in his ears and the sound of Merlin’s labored breathing.

A light began to shine in the palm of Merlin’s hand, a barely discernable shimmer like heat reflecting off of stone in the summer. Arthur felt it against his skin, tingling at first and stinging as it grew stronger. He looked past it and met Merlin’s eyes, wide and desperate.

“We haven’t done everything we’re meant to do,” he whispered.

The magic gathered in Merlin’s palm grew so bright that Arthur had to squint against it, but he couldn’t bear to look away. If he was going to die right now, then he wanted Merlin to be the last thing he ever saw. Merlin’s entire arm was shaking with the strain of the battle of wills taking place within him. Merlin’s eyes filled with golden light as his magic rose up to Cenred’s command, ready to release all the destructive power he had within him, and Merlin opened his mouth.

“I love you, Arthur,” he said.

Then, with an almighty wrench, Merlin tore his hand away from Arthur and turned it instead to the collar. He took hold of the lock just as the pent-up magic burst forth in a riot of light and force, a veritable tidal wave of energy slamming into Arthur and knocking the wind from his lungs to leave him gasping.

A painfully bright glow, as gold as the wash in Merlin’s eyes, shone from between his fingers, growing steadily until something dark began to drip across Merlin’s knuckles and down his arm. At first Arthur thought it might be blood, horror clogging his throat, but then he realized that the solid metal of the lock was _melting_ in Merlin’s grip. It was white-hot and steaming but if it burned then Merlin didn’t give voice to his pain.

Cenred was shouting, trying to get to Merlin, to stop him, but the swirling maelstrom of magic that surrounded Merlin buffeted him and kept him at bay. The collar lit up yet again, but the red flickered and writhed in the air like a living beast as tendrils of gold crept out to strangle it. As Merlin’s magic overtook the spells that bound him, the leather of the collar began to disintegrate, crumbling to dust and falling away to leave Merlin’s neck finally bare and unencumbered.

As the last mote of dust lost contact with his skin, Merlin gasped, his back arching as though he’d been struck, or perhaps as though he’d at last broken the surface of a lake after a lifetime of drowning. Arthur wouldn’t have thought it possible for his eyes to shine brighter, but the gold was edging toward white and he had to look away or else be blinded by its radiance.

The wind had returned, stronger even than when Cenred had demanded it, a powerful gale that whistled through his ears and knocked Arthur off balance. Instinctively, he reached out to break his fall and found that the enchantments holding him captive had been lifted. He was free, and yet he stayed where he was, paralyzed in the face of the sheer power Merlin possessed. Cenred too, it seemed, could do nothing but stare at what had been unleashed as his erstwhile slave turned toward him.

With the air whipping through his hair and his eyes blazing, Merlin was nothing short of terrifying, a demon come to wreak his vengeance. Cenred tried to scramble back, desperate to get away, but Merlin raised a hand and trapped him where he stood. Cenred reached for his throat, scrabbling at bare skin in an attempt to relieve the phantom pressure that he’d inflicted on so many others. Then, when Merlin lifted his arm further, Cenred was hauled bodily from the ground until he hung in midair, thrashing wildly.

“Merlin!” he managed to gasp out. “Merlin, my old friend. Let’s not be hasty.”

Cenred’s whole body jerked as Merlin’s outstretched fingers curled in and he gave a grunt of pain. Arthur lurched to his feet, staying low to anchor himself against the wind, and began forcing his way forward.

“Think what I could do for you, Merlin!” Cenred cried, panicked now. “Anything you want, I can get it for you. Think of what we could do together!”

Merlin tightened his fist again, his lip curling up in disgust as Cenred started to beg.

“You’re _pathetic_ ,” he said, his voice harsh and with a strangely echoing overtone. “You lord yourself over others to make yourself feel powerful, but you’re not. You’re weak and cruel and you will die for what you did to me, and Arthur, and the others, and everyone else you’ve ever harmed.”

“Wait!” Arthur took hold of Merlin’s shoulder, gasping as the magic dancing along Merlin’s skin leapt up to skitter along his own like embers thrown from a fire. He held on despite the pain, gripping tight. “Merlin, you don’t have to do this.”

“He’s a miserable tyrant,” Merlin said, not taking his eyes from the man writhing above him. “He tried to kill you and destroy your kingdom. He abused magic and used it for ill-purposes. He enslaved dozens of innocent people and forced them to do his bidding at the cost of their lives. He’s a usurper and a murderer and he deserves to die.”

“I know all that,” Arthur said. “He should die for his crimes, but you don’t have to be the one to end his life. You don’t have to take that on yourself, Merlin.”

Arthur took Merlin’s other shoulder too, thumbs brushing along the newly exposed skin at the nape of his neck. He could feel Merlin shaking beneath him, whether from his touch or from the force of his own magic Arthur didn’t know.

“Will you still love me?”

It was almost too quiet for Arthur to hear. He frowned. “What?”

“If I do it,” Merlin said. “If I kill him, will you still love me?”

Arthur answered without hesitation.

“Yes.”

The snap of Cenred’s neck was loud even over the roar of the wind. His body slumped down the ground, the crown falling from his head and clattering across the stone floor until it rested at Merlin’s feet. Gradually the wind faded and the light in Merlin’s eyes dulled until he stood looking as ordinary as he had when Arthur had first seen him, just a young man like any other.

Merlin swayed as his strength left him and Arthur wrapped arms around him to keep him upright. Merlin turned to bury his face in Arthur’s neck, clutching at him as he shook violently. Arthur held him tightly, stroking his hair and murmuring comforting nonsense, taking as much comfort as he gave.

He didn’t know how long they stood there, but they only broke apart when a noise from the side of the hall reminded them of Uther’s presence. Arthur pressed a hasty kiss to Merlin’s lips and bid him to hide before the king came to; it wouldn’t be easy for him to come up with a story to explain the damage the throne room had sustained without implicating Merlin, but he’d do it. His father would never suffer a sorcerer in their midst, no matter if that sorcerer had saved them all, and there was no way in hell that Arthur was ever letting Merlin away from his side again.

 

\--

 

In the end, the slave Cenred killed was blamed for any obvious sign of magic in the throne room itself. Arthur told his father of Cenred’s cursed collars and the way they worked, forcing the wearers to act against their will, but he claimed this particular sorcerer had become a willing accomplice. So willing, in fact, that he had let his lust for power drive him to betray his master and attempt to claim Camelot for himself. Cenred had used the collar to kill the traitorous slave, and Arthur had used the distraction to sneak up behind Cenred and take the mad king down himself.

The other enslaved sorcerers, the ones Cenred had tasked with putting down the knights and guards, had done their jobs but only that. Cenred’s orders must have been vague because hardly a man had been injured. It seemed the sorcerers, unwilling participants in the endeavor as they were, hadn’t wanted to cause anyone any harm and had simply used magic to put their charges into a deep sleep. It probably wasn’t what Cenred had had in mind, but it had technically satisfied the command.

It had the added bonus of being easier to explain away. A soporific, Arthur said, with testimony from Gaius backing him up. A nearly undetectable air-born drug that, when inhaled, rendered its victim unconscious but otherwise unharmed. None of the sorcerers spoke up to contradict the assertion, too aware of their newfound freedom to risk revealing their magic to the king and thereby drawing his ire upon them.

Thankfully, no matter how enraged Uther was—or how frustrated at waking to find the situation already resolved and nothing left for him to do about it—he deemed the slaves to be victims in the situation and bid them go freely. They buggered out as quickly as they could, taking nothing but the clothes on their backs and a last meal from the kitchens. Merlin was the only one left by the time Arthur made his way down to the room the slaves had shared during their stay.

He was sat on the bed when Arthur leaned through the half-open door, buckling up a pair of boots that didn’t look new but were certainly an improvement on his previous bare-footedness. He had a belt now and, newest of all, a blue kerchief tied around his neck. Bent down over his knees as Merlin was, Arthur could see underneath the fabric to where Merlin’s neck was ringed with angry red, the skin rough and damaged from its lengthy incarceration. It made Arthur wince to look at it, reaching up to touch his own unblemished skin.

His elbow bumped the door, making the hinges creak. Merlin’s head turned toward the sound without raising, as it had done that first time Arthur had sought him out in the armoury. Then Arthur caught a glimpse of a frown on Merlin’s face. Merlin shook his head and looked up properly.

“Arthur,” he said.

“Hi,” Arthur said, a rather weak greeting after everything but all he could think of at the moment. He cleared his throat. “You’ve got shoes on,” he said, pointing. “First time I’ve seen you with shoes.”

Merlin looked down as if he’d forgotten he put them on. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s harder for slaves to run away if they don’t have shoes. Makes sprinting through the woods rather dangerous, or something like that.” He fingered a buckle. “One of the knights gave me these. Sir Leon, I think it was. Said they were the least I was owed for my act of bravery,” he added, raising an eyebrow at Arthur.

Arthur shrugged. “I told my father that you warned me about Cenred’s plot,” he said. “And that you put yourself at great risk to do so. Both of which are completely true, by the way.”

Merlin shrugged and looked away.

Arthur cleared his throat again, crossing his arms over his chest for want of something else to do with his hands. He leaned against the doorframe. “Leon isn’t the only one who thinks you should be rewarded.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asked.

“My father wants to offer you something for the part you played in defeating Cenred—what little he knows of it, anyway.”

“Offer me what?”

Arthur shifted on his feet. “He said he would award you with a position in the royal household. If you want to take it, that is.”

Merlin looked confused. “You mean as a servant? That sort of position in the household?”

“Yes. As _my_ servant, specifically, actually. My personal manservant, he said.”

Merlin frowned. “Oh.” His hands balled into fists on his knees, fingers crumpling the fabric under them, then he smoothed them out again.

“I realize it’s probably not where you want to be at this point,” Arthur said, scratching the back of his neck. “Tact isn’t exactly my father’s forte. But it would give you a reason to stay here. A reason to be close to me.” Merlin didn’t say anything and Arthur felt his cheeks color. “I mean, if that’s…if that’s still something that you want. To be close to me, I mean.”

“No, it is!” Merlin said, standing up and reaching out as if he wanted to touch Arthur but letting his outstretched hand fall a moment later. “I _would_ like to stay here, with you, it’s just—” He broke off, lips pressing tightly together as he looked away again.

Arthur hesitated, biting his lip. He stepped fully into the room and pressed the door closed behind him.

“It’s a decent job,” he said. “Pays well. You already have all the skills necessary, so you wouldn’t need to be trained for anything else. You’d have room and board, money in your pocket, time and space of your own. And, of course, you’d be free to leave at any time if you so choose.” Arthur ducked his head. “And it would give us an excuse to be together. We could spend as much time together as we wanted, and it wouldn’t arouse anyone’s suspicions. Not even my father’s.”

“That all sounds great,” Merlin said, but it was far from enthusiastic. In fact, he sort of sounded like he was being led to the gallows.

“What?” Arthur asked.

Merlin shook his head and tried to smile. “Nothing.”

“Merlin.”

Merlin gave a half-shrug that was almost more like a twitch, a tight, jerky motion that made his hands flutter restlessly at his sides. “No, really, that sounds ideal. Except that…that would mean you’d be—” He huffed in what was almost laughter, lips twisting into an expression stuck between wry amusement and bitterness. “—my master?”

“No!” Arthur cried at once, striding forward to take Merlin by the arms. “Gods, no, Merlin. I would never claim that. Employer, perhaps, but not that. _Never_ that.”

Merlin didn’t respond, staring instead at his hands on Arthur’s chest.

“Alright, so maybe that was a bad idea, all things considered,” Arthur said, trying to inject some levity into his voice. “Let’s just forget about that one.”

Merlin looked up and gave him a smile, weak but genuine this time. It didn’t last long though. Arthur cast around for anything to say that might get it back, if only just for a moment more.

“The scarf’s new,” he finally said, reaching up to tug on it gently. “It’s a nice color, but it’s got nothing on your eyes.”

The terribly corny line was worth it. Merlin raised his eyebrows, one corner of his mouth curving upward. Then he chuckled, a light blush staining his cheeks. “Gwen gave it to me,” he admitted. “The Lady Morgana’s maid. She came by to tell me how wonderfully brave I’d been,” he said with a very solemn nod. The expression faltered. “Then she saw the, er…” He gestured to the marks on his neck. “Well, she brought me this.”

“It suits you,” Arthur said. “And she’s right, of course. About you being brave. No, sorry, _wonderfully_ brave,” he corrected teasingly, making Merlin groan and roll his eyes.

Arthur slid his hands down Merlin’s arms, sliding them around his waist instead, and Merlin settled more fully against him. He couldn’t help but smile at how perfectly they fit.

“May I kiss you, O Brave One?” he asked.

Merlin laughed again, but he nodded.

This kiss was gentler than any they’d yet shared, shy and inquisitive. There was none of the ferocity and battle that had characterized their previous encounters, but instead a push and pull more reminiscent of ocean tides. The soft, insistent give and take left Arthur lightheaded and quite unsure where he stopped and Merlin began. He rested his forehead against Merlin’s when they parted for breath, reveling in a completeness that he’d never felt before and that he was quite sure he could never bear to lose.

“Do you have any idea what else you might want to do?” he asked quietly, unwilling to interrupt the serenity of the moment any more than he needed to. “If not take the job in the royal household, I mean.”

“Beyond a visit to my mother to let her know I’m alive, I don’t have a clue,” Merlin said with a small sigh. “I was raised on a farm; that’s about all I know. Obviously, there’s no farms in the city. And even if I wanted to go back to my village to stay, I don’t think I could stand it. I wouldn’t… _fit_ there anymore.”

Arthur didn’t have anything to say to that. Instead he pressed a kiss to Merlin’s cheek. Merlin winced and pulled back, reminding Arthur of the bruises that still bottled the right side of his face. Arthur looked at them more closely, tracing his finger over the way the edges were fading from green to yellow. Merlin bit his lip but turned his head more to allow the examination.

“You should let Gaius look you over before you go back to your mother,” Arthur said. “He can give you something for these. And I know you don’t look like you’ve suffered any ill effects from everything that happened, but I’d still feel better if he gave you a once-over. Gaius is our resident font of magical knowledge; if there could be fallout from breaking a curse like that, he’d be the one to know about it.”

Merlin rolled his eyes at what he obviously thought to be mollycoddling but he nodded anyway, already knowing Arthur well enough to realize that resistance would be futile on this particular matter. Arthur was about to drag Merlin to the infirmary right that minute when a thought struck him.

“Merlin, you can’t read by any chance, can you?”

Merlin gave him a funny look. “I can, actually. One of maybe four people in my village who knew how.”

“Can you read well? And write?”

“Remarkably well for an unwashed peasant boy, and yes. Why do you ask?”

Arthur swooped in and kissed Merlin fervently, eliciting a squeak of surprise from the man in question. He ignored Merlin’s bemused look and said, “This is perfect!”

“What’s perfect?” said Merlin, looking at him like he’d gone a bit barmy.

“Gaius has been looking for an assistant for years,” Arthur said eagerly. “Well, he’s been _saying_ he is, but he’s always been too choosy to actually pick someone. He also has plenty of illicit knowledge about sorcery, and to be honest I’ve always thought he harbored pro-magic sentiments, which would make him perfect for you! _And_ I’m pretty sure he took a liking to you when you met a few days ago. It would be _perfect_.”

“Me being Gaius’s assistant?” Merlin asked, just for clarification.

“Yes!” Arthur said, certain of it. “He’d have you mixing up remedies and potions, delivering them and helping with his rounds, fetching herbs for him. You’d be out of the castle a lot, in the lower town or in the woods, free to come and go as you choose. You wouldn’t have to answer to anyone, not really. It would be less restrictive than being a servant, but you’d still get room and board in the citadel and wages of your own. And Gaius may even be able to help you with your magic.”

“You’d trust him with that?” Merlin asked, hesitant. “I mean, it’s still illegal here. You’re sure he’d be okay with it?”

“I trust Gaius with my life, and I’d trust him with yours too,” Arthur said firmly.

Merlin shuffled his feet, though he didn’t pull out of Arthur’s embrace. “And…are you sure _you’re_ okay with it? My magic?”

Arthur cupped Merlin’s face in his hands, making sure that Merlin met his eyes.

“Merlin, you offered up your life for me last night,” he said. “You literally begged for death because you didn’t want to hurt me. How could I not trust you with everything I am after that?”

Merlin put his hand over Arthur’s and squeezed, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“You’re going to be an amazing king, do you know that?” he said. “I can feel it.”

Arthur smiled. “And what else do you feel?”

Merlin leaned forward to kiss him chastely. “That I love you.” He kissed him again. “That I could spend every day of my life by your side and not regret a single moment of it.” Another kiss, this one lingering sweetly. “That we’re meant to be.”

“Written in the stars,” Arthur whispered. “So…you’ll stay with me?”

Merlin smiled, with crinkly eyes and dimples and all the sunshine in the world. “Always."  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To A Place Of No Return (The Surrender Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610498) by [ingberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingberry/pseuds/ingberry)




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